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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28449810">saviour in need</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/muleumpyo/pseuds/thenewlondoner'>thenewlondoner (muleumpyo)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Thirteen (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Rewrite, F/M, Healing, Healing is Messy, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Power Imbalance, Self-Indulgent, Sex, Yes I Rewrote This Entire Show, sometimes fanfiction is a strongly-worded letter to the original creators</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:21:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>56,198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28449810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/muleumpyo/pseuds/thenewlondoner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks ago, Detective Inspector Elliott Carne was on track for a brilliant career as a celebrated officer of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. Within five years, he'd likely be Detective Chief Inspector; in ten, a Detective Chief Superintendent with his own corner office and a wall full of accolades.</p><p>He'd also still be sleepwalking his way through life, haunted by past mistakes he couldn't seem to forget. He'd still be turning a blind eye to the injustices committed by the team under his command. </p><p>Or maybe he'd just be dead. </p><p>Then, thirteen years after her unsolved kidnapping ripped apart the community and drew the world's eye to their small city, Ivy Moxam reappears on the streets of Bristol—grown up, alive, and still running for her life. </p><p>Everything Elliott Carne seemed to know about his life falls apart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elliott Carne/Ivy Moxam | Alison</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>saviour in need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
<br/>
There was no precedent for a case like the reappearance of Ivy Moxam—that much was blindingly obvious from the start. </p><p> </p><p>The police hardly knew where to begin with a case like hers, let alone how to protect her. </p><p> </p><p>They couldn't force her to go to a safe house, not when it was just <em> one man </em> against a whole constabulary. Not when the Chief Inspector had tilted his head in consideration and said, “If he knows where to look for her, we know where he might be.” Not when they heartlessly turned a victim into bait. Not when her family burst into the station, the same fear and terrible hope in their eyes that had not yet been extinguished, even after thirteen long years. </p><p> </p><p>And not when, in the failing light of that impossible afternoon—where miracles had turned true and long-buried pain had burst to the surface—Ivy had looked like if she stayed in the station any longer without her family, she'd fall to dust. Because then where would they be? </p><p> </p><p>A girl turned to dust and her captor turned to a ghost. </p><p> </p><p>They’d end up where they had been for the past thirteen years: no missing girl, no suspect, and at the end of a trail long turned cold. </p><p> </p><p>But the security detail the Avon and Somerset Constabulary hurriedly put together turned out to be, in anyone’s professional opinion, a right <em> fucking </em> joke. Ten officers set to her protection turned to six, turned to four, turned to two—and only one and a half days home, Ivy Moxam fled through her own back gate with absolutely no eyes on her. </p><p> </p><p>In the blink of an eye, she disappeared into the streets of Bristol, just as she had as a teenager.</p><p> </p><p>Every police service in the region had gathered themselves to catch Ivy’s kidnapper, and she very well could have been snatched from right under their noses because of basic incompetence. Because of failure to adhere to even the most rudimentary of security protocols. Because a twenty-six-year-old who had spent the last thirteen years cut off from society had given trained officers the slip without even trying. </p><p> </p><p>See? A bloody fucking <em> joke.</em></p><p> </p><p>All things that led Detective Inspector Elliott Carne to find himself trying to work a comfortable position to lie in on the steps leading to Ivy Moxam's room, one night a week after Ivy had reappeared in Bristol, grown up, alive—and still running for her life. </p><p> </p><p>It was impossible, despite the carpet, to find anything remotely comfortable about a grown man sleeping on a flight of stairs. He shuffled again, hips aching, the wooden lip of the landing sticking into his side. Stifling a groan, he crossed his arms tightly across his chest and leaned back against the wall. At this rate, he'd just as likely slide down the stairs in the middle of the night, knock himself out (and leave Ivy completely unprotected) as he would be any use.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott sighed, closing his eyes against the bright yellow of the streetlamp that cut through the window at the top of the stair. </p><p> </p><p>The rest of the house had been deliberately darkened, made to look as if every soul in it had gone to bed. He had last heard footsteps in her sister's room an hour or more ago and her parents had long since turned in, so it probably was the truth. Only the bedside lamp in Ivy's room was on. Even with his eyes closed, he could picture the faint light spilling from under Ivy's door spreading across the pale carpet.</p><p> </p><p>Why was he even here? Ivy's call about 'a strange man lingering outside' had been a lie, one that would have been obvious to even an untrained detective. The constabulary had upped their security detail under direction from the Chief Superintendent Burridge. None of the other officers on duty had reported a strange man. This time Elliott was even sure they were actually watching out for one.</p><p> </p><p>Mark White wasn't exactly going to try break in now, was he? Not with squad cars on the street and two officers at the back door. It would be foolish for a man—cautious and so self-controlled as he had been proven to be—to even try. </p><p> </p><p>And yet Elliott had been unable to deny Ivy’s voice on the call as she had pleaded for ‘anyone to help, please, <em> help me.’</em> Her voice had been thready, barely strong enough to make the words come out. There had been real fear there, a <em> real </em> desperation that had nothing to do with this fake man. That, more than anything else, had called to him.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t imagine himself saying no to anyone asking for help like that. That was the thing: she was asking for help. If that wasn’t what the police were there for, what in the goddamn hell <em> were </em> they there for? The guilt if he ignored her pleas would choke him.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott sighed. </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it was just as much about protecting her as it was about making sure she didn't run away again. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>What Elliott hadn't expected the morning after Ivy's return was a young man holding flowers to stroll right up through the Moxam's garden gate. No officer stopped him. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott had already grabbed the car door handle to open it and get across the road when the Moxam’s front door opened to reveal Ivy's father. Angus obviously recognised the young man and motioned him inside. </p><p> </p><p>That should have been Elliott’s first clue that the security wasn’t nearly as tight as it ought to be but—foolishly—all he had thought at the time was that the officers knew the man wasn't Mark White, so they had let him through. </p><p> </p><p>What was even more unexpected than this early morning visit, however, was Mrs Moxam—Christina—coming out the door a few minutes later and striding briskly towards his car.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott rolled down the window at her approach. </p><p> </p><p>She gave him a tight, uncomfortable smile as she came to a stop next to the car. Crossing her arms across her chest, she said, "DI Carne. Didn't you say you had to conduct some further interviews with Ivy today?"</p><p> </p><p>Elliott suppressed a surprised look. "Good morning. And yes."</p><p> </p><p>"Will that be soon?" </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t return the greeting and she seemed slightly agitated, so he tried to calm her.</p><p> </p><p>"It should be, but it can wait,” he said. “We've a positive ID to go on now, so an interview will be helpful but it's no longer as critical." </p><p> </p><p>"No, no. That’s not right,” Christina murmured, but it seemed more to herself than to him. After a moment, she looked back at him. “Can you do it now?"</p><p> </p><p>“Er, if Ivy is ready, yes.” Elliott stared at her, trying to gauge her motive. “Is she ready?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yes." </p><p> </p><p>Something in her attitude told Elliott she expected him to come inside. He wondered if something was wrong, or perhaps she was just anxious in general. Curious either way, he got out of the car and followed her. He decided it was better to figure out what it is was she was anxious about, and if it had anything to do with the case.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy wasn't waiting downstairs. Not as ready as she said, then. </p><p> </p><p>"It'll be just up here," Christina said, heading up the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>He followed her up to a small landing and then to the first floor, where the family's private rooms were. Ivy's door, with its cleverly cut sticks of ash wood that spelled out her name, was closed. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott frowned.</p><p> </p><p>"Here." Christina knocked on the door, though she pushed it open before there was time for an answer. With a hand-wave, she directed Elliott ahead of her up the carpeted steps. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s first thought of Ivy’s room was that it was a strange room, almost like an attic. A flight of stairs on one side of the room with the peaked ceiling rising high above them, gave him the impression that it had been lofted high in the air. Blu-Tack littered the walls, marking where Ivy's parents had obviously taken down the pictures and posters Ivy had hung during her childhood and had not yet had time to repost them. Only a few select, generic pictures remained up. With an overlarge dollhouse pushed into a corner, and latent dust gathering on the bookshelves, the room had a slightly ghostly quality, as if only half-occupied. </p><p> </p><p>The young man who had approached the house was sitting next to Ivy on the—<em> her </em> bed. The double bed had been neatly made, the precise corners of the floral duvet almost hotel-like in their sharpness. The young pair were perched on the edge of the mattress, their postures so stiff they seemed about to fall off.  </p><p> </p><p>Although her posture was unequivocally tense, Ivy had done something new to her hair—brushed it and styled it back. Her skin glowed, and her lips were pink. She looked, for lack of a better word, <em> pretty.</em> </p><p> </p><p>An uneasy feeling made Elliott pause. His gaze flickered back to Christina, then to Ivy. It seemed clear: he had been led into a trap, and not one he’d thought to encounter. </p><p> </p><p>"Er, Ivy,” he finally said. “We need to resume our interview."</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's gaze slipped past him, went straight to Christina. She looked annoyed. She didn’t seem to be speaking to him when she said,  "I’ve got my friend here."</p><p> </p><p>An awkward pause froze them all in place.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott thought her mother would say something, but she didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>"So I see," he said. That clearly wasn’t enough. He tried again, aware of Christina at his back. It was obvious didn't like the young man for some reason and was trying to use Elliott to get him out. "But it’s important—"</p><p> </p><p>"I'll be down when I'm ready," Ivy cut across him. Her gaze went straight to him as if expecting him to fight it. </p><p> </p><p>But he wasn't here to push her, and he certainly wasn't here to act like a buffer between mother and daughter. "Alright," he murmured, almost too softly to hear.  </p><p> </p><p>He gave one last look at the young man, remembering his features, now twisted in discomfort. Close up, it was easy to recognise him from the photos. Of course. Tim. The best friend.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's childhood crush, now married and working in a pub with his wife. </p><p> </p><p>Not a threat.</p><p> </p><p>"Alright,” Elliott breathed out. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>He reassessed that determination less than half an hour later. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll find her,” Tim said, when he saw the open window in the bath. He turned toward the door. “I’ll find her.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m coming with you,” Elliott said, grabbing Tim’s wrist. </p><p> </p><p>When Tim pulled back, protest rising on his lips, Elliott’s grip tightened. He yanked Tim sharply toward him. The young man stumbled, clearly not expecting the violence of the grip. </p><p> </p><p><em>"I’m coming with you </em> ,” Elliott insisted. This wasn’t his personal voice. This was his <em> Detective Inspector Elliott Carne </em> voice, the one that did not allow for disagreement. “If you have intel on where Ivy Moxam might be, you will tell me. Now.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s lips floundered around a slight ‘o’ of surprise. He allowed Elliott to direct him down the stairs and out the front door as his next words tumbled out. “I… there’s a place. A garden. Down in the city centre. I think she might—well, we used to go there after school all the time. I used to go there… after she, <em> y’know, </em> thinking she might show up one day. ‘Course, she never did. But if she’d go anywhere, she’d go there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?” Elliott asked. Even as he spoke, he pushed Tim toward his unmarked police car. “You’re sure that’s where she’d go?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nodded, eyes wide. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott nodded back grimly. He opened the back door to the car and motioned Tim inside. “Get in.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Elliott had asked her why. </p><p> </p><p>After they had kicked down the door to the bath to see that open, empty window, spring breeze blowing in fast and cold through the panes. After Tim had said he’d known where to find her again, in a side garden down in the city centre. After that momentary terror of losing her again just as soon as she had been found—Elliott had asked her why she ran. </p><p> </p><p>Instead of answering, Ivy had shrugged, gaze flickering away. </p><p> </p><p>He waited for a long moment that stretched on and on, awkwardness filling the empty space. This was an old police trick to get people to talk—people hated awkward silence—and though he didn’t think of it like that, it worked. After a moment, Ivy spoke. </p><p> </p><p>Everyone wanted to fill the silence, that much he knew. But the words themselves were unexpected.</p><p> </p><p>"He... touched me," Ivy said quietly.</p><p> </p><p>The wind had blown her hair about her shoulders. When they first met, the fluorescent lighting of the police station had flattened the colour of her hair to a dull brown. She had been such a grim little picture in the station, all awkward angles and face as white as her paper jumpsuit.</p><p> </p><p>Outside, in the garden, the strands glimmered in the shallow spring sunlight. Threads of gold and copper shadowed through the waves of her hair that tumbled down the back of her soft pink jumper. There had been a spark to her, even then. Something alive. Something unbroken.</p><p> </p><p>"What do you mean he touched you?" Elliott asked, concern rearing an alarmingly strong head. If they couldn't even trust her friends... <em> Christ</em><em>,</em> but he would punch that little arsehole in the mouth if he put <em> one </em> bad hand on Ivy. "Ivy? What happened?"</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him, a small smile on her lips. Almost as if she were embarrassed, or she heard and understood his concern. "It's okay. He didn't—well, it wasn't anything bad. Really. He just tried to hold my hand."</p><p> </p><p>Relief coursed through Elliott. Except it would be foolish to pretend like there hadn’t been, even then, a slight undercurrent of something else mixed in with that relief. Something that tread dangerously close to jealousy. </p><p> </p><p>"Tim?” he clarified. “He’s your mate from school, right? You want to allow him to visit?"</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Ivy ducked her head. Her eyelashes brushed against her pale cheeks as she closed her eyes. Her voice shrank, swallowed to a whisper within her. “I just—just wasn't expecting it. I'm not sure what happened. But it's not a big deal, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott stepped closer, shoving his hand in his pocket to keep himself from following through on a strange impulse to reach out and touch Ivy. "Are you alright? D'you need us to escort you back to yours?" He lowered his voice, though Tim was well on the other side of the garden, speaking to a uniformed officer. “Or somewhere else? Alone?"</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's gaze flashed in the direction of her friend, her expression for a moment unreadable. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott could imagine Lisa, if she had been there, holding back a scoff at his perceived solicitousness. Already, he could hear her words when he told her the summary of the incident:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "You can't treat her like a child, Elliott. She's going to need to grow up and get back into the world—sooner rather than later. Treating every time she has a bad reaction like it's the end of the world is just going to make it harder for her eventually.” She would pause there, for emphasis, before decisively saying, “Back off." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But Elliott didn't care. Lisa had her points, and he knew them by rote. But her strength and her flaw were one and the same: she didn't empathise with anyone. Not their witnesses, nor their victims. Nor suspects, especially. </p><p> </p><p>The thought of Ivy with her soft voice and shattered memories being deemed a ‘suspect’ made Elliott feel a bit sick.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm alright, really. He was just... being a friend,” Ivy continued. Her downturned gaze flicked up to Elliott and he could see the words forming at her lips before she spoke, as if she needed extra courage to speak them. “But if you could drive me home—”</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely,” Elliott replied, too quickly. “Whenever you're ready.”</p><p> </p><p>The corners of Ivy's eyes turned up when she smiled. "Thank you, DI Carne."</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t yet started to call him Elliott. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why was he here? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Elliott rolled his neck, trying to get himself comfortable on the wall. It was an impossible task. How could plaster be so cold?</p><p> </p><p>He knew why he was there. The truth, this time.</p><p> </p><p>The truth was he knew that she didn't want to be alone. That she had no one, really, after thirteen years trapped alone with her kidnapper. Everyone else had moved on, or else held onto an idea of her as a child that no longer existed—a girl that had disappeared long ago. She was isolated and confused and <em> scared. </em> Scared most of all. </p><p> </p><p>It had been a mistake, perhaps, having read the counselor’s file on her. Not only was it a massive invasion of her privacy but it was likely to get him sacked on the spot if anyone found out. It was probably also guilt that brought him here. A form of penance for a crime Ivy had no idea had occurred. </p><p> </p><p>One detail had stuck out to Elliott from the notes in the file: in the initial session with the psychologist—when she was still delirious with all the changes crashing through a mind used to an ordered, restricted existence—Ivy had admitted she thought about going back to her kidnapper. It was the only life she had known for so long and she wanted to return to something simple. Something she understood. </p><p> </p><p>Anyone reading the file would think it was a mad delusion, truly. Return to captivity? To return to a man who had controlled every aspect of her life and who had kept her from other people for thirteen long years? No sane person would want that.</p><p> </p><p>At first, he had been thrown off. But Elliott had made himself consider it: for thirteen years, Ivy had only known Mark White. Her life had revolved around him. The man had forcefully made himself the centre of her world. He had decided everything about her life—from what she ate, to what she wore, to what she saw, to what she did. He had protected her and had kept her hidden and <em> safe </em>, in a sense—though the irony of this protection was not lost on anyone outside their relationship. But so, too, was the extent of Mark White’s control of Ivy Moxam’s whole life difficult to understand for anyone on the outside of it. </p><p> </p><p>Though the idea of returning to a life like that was difficult to fathom for Elliott, so too was it impossible to imagine living with one person, alone, for half of one's life, <em> without </em> having complicated feelings about them. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy had uncertainly called these feelings love, because what else could she call it? What other word could encompass all she felt for someone who had formed the epicentre her whole life, however conflicted those feelings might be? </p><p> </p><p>It pained Elliott to think of Ivy believing that was what love was. Love, to Ivy, was a complicated mass of ugly feelings designed to prevent you from seeing the way they hurt you. Nothing beautiful, nothing uplifting, nothing selfless in this love—nothing but her own sacrifice. </p><p> </p><p>It was wrong. Elliott could admit he knew little about it himself, but he knew that wasn’t love. </p><p> </p><p>Worse still, coming back, Ivy had said everything she thought she knew about her life before seemed disappeared entirely. </p><p> </p><p>In the life she had thought she had left behind, one that had been her imagined safe harbor for so long, it turned out to be that there was no safe place for her to land. Her family was different. Her friends were gone, or grown. Even the streets she had grown up on had changed. The wonky lanes of her neighborhood had been straightened and paved. The crooked lane that led to a nearby park had been demolished and turned into a shiny new estate—even the off-license store she used to frequent after school had closed down in her absence.</p><p> </p><p>And so it seemed like the only thing <em> stable </em> in this mass of impossible, emotional chaos was the man she had just escaped. He had known her, and kept her, for thirteen years. She knew little of the real world without him.</p><p> </p><p>Her friends only remembered the girl who had disappeared. No one seemed to square her with that thirteen year old child with bright hazel eyes and a cheeky tint to her smile in all those old photos. Her family only knew the void that had yawned open in the centre of their lives the day she had been taken, the way it had shattered their relationships, swallowed up their hopes of the future. </p><p> </p><p>The public— well, the public knew even less. They had never known her. They knew the <em> story </em> of her, the photo that flashed on the telly in the back of yet another depressing news programme, paired with words like 'cheerful', 'sweet', and 'a perfect daughter.' </p><p> </p><p>No one else had yet taken the time to get to know the woman that had emerged from the darkness that had cloaked her life for the past thirteen years. No one was looking at her: Ivy Moxam; Alison; the woman that abducted girl had become. Everyone saw only the pain shadowed under her eyes; not the face that had looked at the sky outside the police station with a wonder and a fear that was at once beautiful and utterly heartbreaking. </p><p> </p><p>They were all looking past her for something else. Her family was looking for someone who no longer existed. The police were looking for leads. The public was looking at a miracle sprung to life, unsure of what to make of it. Not one was looking at <em> her. </em> Ivy.</p><p> </p><p>And Elliott didn't want to leave her to face her pain alone—this fragile woman who was so impossibly strong, already emerging from the shell that had kept the heart of hers safe for all those years. </p><p> </p><p>Even if things had changed for Ivy in the intervening days. Even though her counselor had asked the same question just the day before and her answer had changed. Even though she remembered the horror of captivity more clearly, things had evened out between her family and her, and she felt hope. There was still distance, but it wasn't as impossible anymore. </p><p> </p><p>Even so, Elliott didn't want to leave her alone.</p><p> </p><p>All along, Elliott had tried to listen, tried to see her as who she had truly become. He told himself it was because they needed to find Mark White. He told himself that the more she came to know herself, the better she, too, could look back and see all those past selves coalescing into one. She could move forward. He told himself it would help with the case, her relationships with her family, her mental wellbeing. </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps all these things were true, in their own way. But it wasn't anywhere close to the truth.</p><p> </p><p>He told himself these things because the truth—the <em> actual, </em> full truth—was far too terrifying to contemplate. He told himself these things because if he didn't, the truth could shatter his whole life in a second.</p><p> </p><p>So, when Lisa accused him of being biased, told him to 'be careful,' her voice cut with an accusatory tone as she had said, 'someone with <em> your </em> track record,' Elliott pretended not to understand. </p><p> </p><p>But he knew exactly what she meant. And he knew how true the accusation was.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
There had been a case, one of his first as a Detective Constable. </p><p> </p><p>Just a month or two out of uniform, he was, and still unaccountably proud of his new title. How confident he felt now he could say, ‘My name is Detective Constable Elliott Carne,’ and the victim would look at him like he was the last safe place left, like he could fix everything that had gone wrong. </p><p> </p><p><em> Hubris, that was. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He saw it now, not that it made it any better.</p><p> </p><p>Detective Inspector Miller, his partner before Lisa, had gotten the call that night and told him to grab his coat and to ‘Prepare yourself. This is a nasty one, alright?’ </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn't feel that way, excitement making his whole body feel bright, as if he were lit up from inside. As a DC, there was so much more he could do than in a uniform.</p><p> </p><p>DI Miller drove him down the back lane ways of Bristol into the quiet area southeast of the river. At that time, the streets in the area rambled aimlessly into the dark countryside. They had stopped in front of a whole row of red brick council houses in a neighbourhood that was far from nice. There were already squad cars outside one of the unremarkable doors, their sirens off. </p><p> </p><p>That had should have been his first clue. </p><p> </p><p>But it was only when they were met at the door by a uniformed officer, gruff face blank in an unusual way, that unease finally slid low in Elliott's belly. </p><p> </p><p>When they went into the living room, it was eerily quiet. He had catalogued it without thinking: white walls with a generic print of a seaside, tepid colored furniture too old to be nice, too beat up to be antique. Blinds were drawn, though it wasn't quite evening. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott got the impression that the blinds hadn't been opened in quite some time. Never a good sign.<br/>
<br/>
And there, sitting on one side of the faded green sofa, was a woman, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. Long brown hair had hidden her face from view. Even from across the room, he could see her sadness in the way her body curled into itself, from the way her knees pressed together to the way she sat, unmoving. </p><p> </p><p>At the sound of their footsteps, softened by the carpet, she had looked up. Her soft brown eyes, framed by light lashes, had met Elliott's. </p><p> </p><p><em> Caught. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Held.</p><p> </p><p>And he had felt the world tilt abruptly on its axis.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It was the same, years later, with Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>It was his breath that had caught tight; something he felt like a kick in the heart. As if he were ten years old again, his mother stifling her cries in the other room after his father had stormed out.  </p><p> </p><p>It was the world gone off kilter, like it had with the kiss his mother pressed onto his forehead before he left for primary school that day. It had been knowing this would be the last time he would see her. It was, too, the look her green eyes had been shadowed by—something far beyond unknowable to him, but the fierceness of it had caught the morning light for one final, brilliant moment. </p><p> </p><p>And Ivy looking up at him from across the small family recovery room after being hidden away for thirteen years, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes—the gaze was the same. He felt it in his heart.</p><p> </p><p>It was sorrow, and it was the heat-strike pain of love. It was a thread unspooling between them, wrapping tight their uncertain hearts—turning them to tinder, ready to catch fire. </p><p> </p><p>It was a promise wrapped in a gaze. </p><p> </p><p>Those fragile things ready to burn to ash, or set them both aflame.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>At first it had seemed like the same, sad story: a woman abused by her husband, time and time again, but this time things had escalated, became heated for one reason or another. </p><p> </p><p>The table in the entry had been overturned, evidence of nicks and damage to the plastered walls. Glass littered the kitchen counter where the husband had thrown a fry pan through the frosted panes. A back garden, showing the pitiful attempts at an herb garden in one corner and an overgrown swing set—never used—in the other, was visible through the cracked window frame. </p><p> </p><p>They took her to the station for the interview but Elliott couldn't get the images out of his head. The very slightly altered picture that comprised a destroyed domestic life: a marriage turned sour, a powerful man taking out his frustration and anger at the world on a trapped, desperate woman who had once loved him.<br/>
<br/>
She had been married young, Maggie said. </p><p> </p><p>Husband had been a sweetheart through school and sixth form, and had a job right out of school as a driver for a local deliveries company. But after their marriage, things got harder. The money wasn't enough, and eventually Maggie got a part-time position down at the local market to help out. Though the income helped their bank account, the time apart made their relationship worse. Her husband started to drink more, resented when she nagged him about it, got jealous when she went off to work. </p><p> </p><p>Things got worse when Maggie finally got pregnant. She thought it would make things better, the responsibility of being a father would make him step up, stop drinking, make them closer as a family. And for a split second—like it so often did—it seemed like it had. Her husband had stopped drinking. They had cleared out a space for the crib and begun to pick out names. </p><p> </p><p><em> Patterns are strong things, </em>Elliott had remembered with a rising unease. Patterns of behaviour felt inescapable to those caught in them: a vise snarled around their victim's throat, always just a breath from drawing tight as a garrote again. </p><p> </p><p>And so her husband had got angry again, who knew about what, just as he always would. One night in a particular rage, he had thrown her to the floor. The resulting trauma had made her miscarry. </p><p> </p><p>For her, Maggie said, that was one of the worst moments.</p><p> </p><p>In the cool interrogation room, Elliott felt his whole body wash cold, then hot. Under the table his hands clenched into fists. DI Miller shot him a sideways glance, but said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie's voice wobbled dangerously, her hands wrapped tight around the mug of tea they had offered her. Elliott had wanted to wrap her up, hands brushing over the places she had been hurt before, and hide her against his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Apparently her husband had apologised—crying, pleading, the whole bit. But things escalated after that. </p><p> </p><p>Her husband blamed her. </p><p> </p><p>Maggie blamed him, but couldn't say it. Blamed herself for not getting out when she thought she could. Worse, still, she blamed herself for killing the one person she had felt like it might be safe to love. </p><p> </p><p>As abusive partners so often contrived it to be, there was nowhere else for her to go: her husband was her family now. She hadn't spoken to her parents properly in years and all her school friends had disappeared by the wayside. The attack she had suffered the day the police arrived was just another one in the endless stream, only different for the shattered kitchen window and her husband storming out to leave her alone to deal with the mess and the nosy neighbours. </p><p> </p><p>It was a neighbour who had called the police. Maggie had only answered the door because she thought it was her husband come back again. This was the reality she lived in. </p><p> </p><p>The story was heart-wrenching and completely mundane. Elliott wanted nothing but to wrap his arms around Maggie until she stopped shuddering with tears. It seemed to him she was so fragile, and so unprotected. He should be able to <em> protect her </em> from the bastard. Rage coursed hotly through his veins.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie looked up and her eyes met Elliott's. Just a split second they looked at each other, but he was certain she understood him. That she saw his coiled anger, his desire to protect her. But she said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>They had wanted to charge her husband, but Maggie shook her head. She refused, and without her testimony, they had no evidence a crime had been committed. They offered her resources to get out and she took the leaflets, but it felt routine, ceremonial. The police was sure she wouldn't use them. All anyone could hope for was that, perhaps one day, she might be desperate enough to.</p><p> </p><p>After the interview was over, Maggie got up to leave the station. They escorted her to the hallway, he and DI Miller, and said their goodbyes at the interview room door.</p><p> </p><p>As Maggie started down the long hallway to the exit, DI Miller shook his head. “Shame, that is.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott tore his gaze from that slight, fading figure. “What d'you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>DI Miller gave him a tired smile. “Seen it all before, lad. She's not one to leave.” </p><p> </p><p>“How do you know?” Elliott asked, although his voice felt very far away, disconnected from him.</p><p> </p><p>“You can see it in the eyes: the ones who won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What will happen?” he whispered, though he knew the truth with the dread curling in his gut. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. She can’t— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>DI Miller tilted his head. His gaze seemed distant in a different way. As if he didn’t—or couldn’t—care. “More likely than not, we'll see her not too long from now.” His tone was flat. Factual. “In the morgue.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt like he'd been dropped from a great height and was just falling, falling endlessly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dead— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>DI Miller put one weathered hand on Elliott's shoulder, in a trained effort to comfort him. But Elliott felt numb, disconnected.</p><p> </p><p>“Don't blame yourself, Carne. You did what you could.” The older detective turned back into the investigation room with one last sigh. He had been long past any form of sympathy at that point. He had seen a million stories he had already lived played out again, in tunes he knew so well, and he had given up because he knew the end. There was no point in doing anything. </p><p> </p><p>The door had slammed shut before Elliott snapped bodily back to himself. His vision swum with colours. He felt sick.</p><p> </p><p><em> But </em> he <em> hadn’t done anything. </em><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Down the hall, Maggie was walking towards the exit. Her walk wasn't purposeful or deliberately slow. It was as if she had nowhere to be, and yet couldn't possibly stop. She couldn't rest, just had to keep going. </p><p><br/>
Elliott fumbled a card out of his pocket before she could disappear through those doors and possibly forever. He had to stop her. He had to do <em> something.</em></p><p> </p><p>"Maggie. Margaret." His voice echoed down the hall, hardly recognisable as his own. His vision felt like it was swimming.</p><p> </p><p>She paused. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott strode towards her even though his knees felt liquid and unable to keep his weight. Though the hallway was eerily silent, his ears rang with a strange echo.</p><p> </p><p>He took her hand and pressed his card into her palm. It felt like time was slipping away from him and he was about to watch her disappear in front of his eyes. His heart felt split, struck through by a knife he couldn't breathe through. </p><p> </p><p>"Ring anytime,” he heard himself saying. “If you need anything. Anything at all. No questions asked."</p><p> </p><p>Maggie curled her fingers around the card. Her hand was hot and trembling under Elliott's grip. </p><p> </p><p>She didn't say a word. Not then.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p><br/>
<br/>
It only took a week for her to ring him. That tremble in her voice still resounded through Elliott’s heart and he fumbled his mobile and nearly dropped it.</p><p> </p><p>They talked on a throwaway mobile she had bought just for the purpose. There was no plan to it all—they talked whenever she had time: at odd hours of the day when her husband was out, or late in the evenings after he had come back from the pub utterly sloshed as usual and fallen straight to sleep. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn't anything bad, Elliott told himself. There was no cause for the police to get involved. They were just talking. </p><p> </p><p>And for a while, it really was just as innocuous as it seemed. They spoke every day, about nothing, everything, serious and inane, until Elliott was falling asleep with her voice in his ear, was waking to it in the cold grey dawn—alone. </p><p> </p><p>Always alone. </p><p> </p><p>But, as with anything secret it became larger, and more ominous, of its own accord. The constant strain of her relationship as it was—never improving, yet never getting substantially worse—grew heavier by the day. The simple act of keeping it from crushing her felt like a Sisyphean task. He should have reckoned it as impossible early on. He should have thrown her to counseling services and given it up as a loss.</p><p> </p><p>Within a month it turned into feeling like their conversations were keeping him alive, and—more importantly—keeping <em> her </em> alive. But he couldn’t leave it.</p><p> </p><p>If he could comfort or berate himself for anything, for all they talked every day, they met only once in the middle of it: when Maggie had run from her house. </p><p> </p><p>One night, she rang him, crying.</p><p> </p><p>Desperation made his voice rough. "Where are you, right now? Maggie, where are you?"</p><p> </p><p>Elliott nearly got himself in an accident driving recklessly through the night-darkened streets of Bristol to the address she gave him.  </p><p> </p><p>He picked her up from the park and, at her request, drove her home. It was silent in the car, Elliott strangely tongue-tied with Maggie there. She looked straight out the window, her face blank until Elliott pulled the car over and parked on the side of a quiet road close to her house.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie had moved slowly, almost robotically, to get out when they stopped. But, for a moment, she had paused as she reached for the door handle. The streetlamp puddled yellow light on her shoulders, the harsh color washing out half her features.</p><p> </p><p>The silence felt charged with electricity. The whole space was buzzing with it. </p><p> </p><p>It seemed clear. He couldn't just let her leave without saying anything.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you really want to go back?" Elliott asked suddenly. He wasn't sure why he was asking—he wasn't sure he even wanted the answer.</p><p> </p><p>And the reality was, now that he was able to see her face, smell the powdery scent of her hair, hold her delicate hands, it felt infinitely worse letting her go back. After all those nights with her voice in his ear, her words filling his heart, he wanted so badly to protect her. Yet he knew that he couldn't stop her, short of locking the doors and driving away. </p><p> </p><p>He had to let her go, or else do nothing but what her husband had already done: trap her.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie had looked at him. For a moment she didn't say anything. </p><p> </p><p>Her pink lips parted. Her breath made her chest rise and fall under her blouse, as if she was still running, still trying to escape. </p><p> </p><p>But she wasn't, he knew—even a split second before she spoke. It struck him as an inevitable truth: she would never escape. And neither would he.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know," she whispered. </p><p> </p><p>The words cut more sharply than Elliott thought they would. </p><p> </p><p>And before Elliott could think to respond, she was out of the car and running down to the street corner. Cold air blew in through the half-opened door. Nausea had soured his throat. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott sat outside their house that night, waiting for terrible screams, the sound of broken glass, Maggie's face in the window. But nothing happened. The house was quiet. </p><p> </p><p>But he couldn’t leave. Elliott felt bound to this, knew in his bones it was something he had to pursue.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><br/>
<strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Only later would he realise the significance of how he met Ivy, and of how it all fell apart.</p><p> </p><p>He never doubted it was her, Ivy Moxam, not as Lisa and the other detectives doubted. </p><p> </p><p>He was sure news anchors were eagerly hoping it was just an imposter. Those vultures were ready to dig into this fragile young woman who had just escaped a waking nightmare, and there weren't enough police services in the world that could stop them from doing so. </p><p> </p><p>And he knew it was her—in his bones there was a certainty that seemed to come from outside himself that made him sure she was <em> not lying. </em> He couldn’t even say where this certainty came from. He just knew.</p><p> </p><p>When she arrived at the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, she was hardly communicative. She allowed the family liaison officer to lead her to an examination room. She was pliable, completely silent. The forensic techs took photos of her injuries: the bruise rising over her neck; the scratches on her arms and hands from defending herself; the various purple and yellow bruises all over her body; the unmentionable marks between her thighs. Through it all, she had said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>As he and Lisa had prepared to go into the interview portion, they reviewed the photos. Elliott could hardly stand to look at them. There was something about the clinical photos of Ivy's body, the cataloguing of bruises and past abuses as if they were all just simple fact—not proof of terrible destruction of another human being—that subtly but relentlessly ran him up the wall.</p><p> </p><p>They should have had the psychologist in to talk to her <em> before </em> she left, he realised later. Not after. It would have made everything a whole hell of a lot easier. But they were hurrying, trying to catch her kidnapper—Leonard, she had called him—before the bastard disappeared into the æther again. </p><p> </p><p>Yet another instance of putting results before the welfare of a victim. What a surprise.</p><p> </p><p>She told them her story. Or, at least, what she remembered. The memory was fractured and disconnected in many places, and seemingly impossible to talk about in others. So many people acted as if it were guilt that had silenced her. But no matter how the police service played that fact out later, her reaction was true as any victim or survivor of abuse he had encountered. </p><p> </p><p>So often abuse victims fell silent when questioned, because they knew a wrong response could earn them a physical rebuke, or worse. Sometimes they couldn’t remember the simplest facts because they had been manipulated into not trusting their own memory. Dates and names jumbled up in their head. They lied, sometimes without even thinking, because they had been trained to respond in a certain way. This was incredibly, depressingly common.</p><p> </p><p>Trauma slammed into a life, into a body, into a mind, and cracks spread from the point of impact like spiderwebs on glass. Even the slightest tap could make it shatter, sometimes. </p><p> </p><p>No one around Elliott seemed to notice this impending disaster in the body of one Ivy Moxam. Everyone around him seemed intent, instead, on cracking the glass entirely, to get to a truth they <em> thought </em> was on the other side.</p><p> </p><p>As Ivy spoke, her voice dropped off on particularly painful answers, her hands tightening (on each other, the table, a cup of tea) reflexively. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott was reminded that these things must all be new to her. Again and again he had to remind himself that she hadn't been out of captivity for thirteen years. It was a strange thing to remind oneself of—memorable as the fact should be—but it seemed necessary. After eight years of this kind of work, it could be a struggle to draw the appropriate level of sympathy up.</p><p> </p><p>He had wanted to say, <em> It's alright if you don't remember right now. </em> He had wanted to wait. He had wanted to let Ivy to come to her own conclusions, and come to them in her own time. He had wanted to be kind. </p><p> </p><p>The police service didn’t work that way. They hadn’t been trained like that.</p><p> </p><p>He and Lisa were a team, and his partner had wanted to push as far as she could for as much information as they could get. Every small, seemingly insignificant, detail was important. This, too, was true.</p><p> </p><p>So, instead of waiting, they fell into their usual roles and played the tough copper, nice copper. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa pushed and prodded deeper where Ivy's stories seemed to weaken, or contradict one another. Elliott, being encouraging, softened the questions, and offered a professional facsimile of sympathy. </p><p> </p><p>It was unexpectedly…<em> harrowing </em> to watch Ivy struggle with even the most routine of questions. Expressions flit over her delicate features like flashes of light on water, illuminating for a moment her green-gold eyes, the curve of her small mouth. Though she tried to answer, she often seemed unable to answer simple things like: where did you live? What did you do every day? What do you remember of when you escaped? </p><p> </p><p>And yet it was through those flashes that glimpses of a deeper pain became clear. </p><p> </p><p>For all they said that they understood her when she told her story, no one possibly could. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy, alone of so many children taken, had returned. Ivy, <em> alone, </em> had survived impossible odds, for an <em> impossibly </em> long time. Ivy, alone but for her kidnapper for thirteen years, would remain in a unique, nearly singular position for the rest of her life. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was, by all accounts, a miracle. And miracles did not fare well in the real world.</p><p> </p><p>As she continued to speak, Elliott was filled with real sympathy for this girl lost and this woman returned. It was different than other abuse cases he had worked, though the answers were as heartbreaking as always. At least she had escaped her circumstances and was very nearly home again. The man who had taken her and inflicted the pain was still on the lam, but catching him seemed easy in comparison to pulling her free of those circumstances. </p><p> </p><p>Once someone was out of those, Elliott thought, he could keep them safe. Shouldn’t it be the same for Ivy? Couldn’t he keep her safe, too? Couldn’t she go home and return to her life?</p><p> </p><p>He was sure, then, that she could. That he could guarantee it.</p><p> </p><p><em> And this, too, was hubris. </em> Only he couldn’t see it.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>“She was lying when she said she never went out,” Lisa said as they prepared for the second interview with Ivy that first day.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked over at her. His heart still hurt from seeing the Moxam family in the waiting room, as they had held onto their hope with an iron fist, careful not to expect too much from this girl that called herself their daughter. And Ivy, the light that flashed through her eyes as she looked through the window and saw—saw what? Family? Her life? Love? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ghosts? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>To be honest, Elliott hadn’t really thought about the interview that much. Ivy had barely been able to string sentences together. She had hardly been <em> verbal, </em> let alone trying to concoct a lie. </p><p> </p><p>“Lying implies she’s trying to hide something,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa made a considering noise. “Maybe she is. That hesitation, when she said she never left the cellar. Didn’t that seem strange to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shrugged. There were certain tells that liars had, but to know them, you often had to know the person. They barely knew Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>Anxiety so often came across as deception, when it was only uncertainty. Silence came across as guilt or stubbornness. Any defensiveness could be read as obvious proof of some kind of desire to hide something, rather than simple discomfort or a reaction to perceived judgment. In his experience, facts had to be verified. Evidence was a better gauge of the truth than a person’s tells.</p><p> </p><p>“I think she did. I bet she even left the house at some point.” Lisa said, and paused, considering. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure she did.”</p><p> </p><p>He shoved down on his irritation at this cavalier attitude. He’d let Lisa draw whatever conclusions she wanted, at least for now. His voice, however, was still chilly when he spoke. “We don’t bet on cases, DS Merchant. Best for you to remember that.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa looked a little taken aback, both at his tone and his use of her formal title.</p><p> </p><p>He rarely pushed back on her methodology in pursuing cases. Usually, she could do what she wanted during the investigation, take whatever tack she thought was best, and he would allow it. Usually their styles of investigation and interrogation complemented each other in a way that produced results. Lisa took the hard tack, allowing no room for lies or prevarication, just as he offered an understanding ear to eyewitnesses, victims, even suspects. </p><p> </p><p>Good copper, bad copper—call it old-fashioned, but it did work. </p><p> </p><p>But he didn’t want Ivy to be caught between them. The hard line the questioning took obviously cut into Ivy, and bothered him to a depth he didn’t quite understand. </p><p> </p><p>So, later, when Lisa asked for a second time if she had ever left the cellar and Ivy gave that slight nod, her pleading eyes flashing up to Elliott—rather than feeling like he’d been proven wrong, he felt protective. </p><p> </p><p>It was <em> obvious </em> to anyone looking that Ivy hadn’t been trying to lie. She was looking to him for help. </p><p> </p><p>And when Ivy had admitted to leaving the house ‘just once,’ Lisa shot a look at him—not quite gloating, but smug enough. He had looked away, rather than show his annoyance. After that, he kept his eyes on Ivy.</p><p> </p><p>He had caught the defiant tilt of Ivy’s chin in reaction to the pointed question Lisa posed next, ‘Did you try to communicate your situation to anyone?’ and rather than feeling like this defiance was proof of something to hide, a sore point to push on, he felt strangely <em> glad</em>. This girl—this woman—who had endured so much in the past thirteen years, had a grit to her, even now. She wouldn’t let people steamroll over her.</p><p> </p><p>“You think I should have done something. Run.” Ivy said quietly, more confidently than she had anything else. Her eyes now burned accusingly into Lisa’s. “You think this is <em> my fault</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>It sounded like something she had thought of for a long time. A judgment she had long held against herself. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott finally, finally cut in, leaning across the table to Ivy. It had struck him, how badly he had wanted to reach out to her, even then. “No one’s thinking that,” he said softly. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked at Elliott like he had just thrown her a lifeline.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s downcast gaze and pursed lips, however, told a different story.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>When Ivy finally, <em> finally </em> went home, she said goodbye to each of the officers at the door to the Moxam family house.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott was last; for a second, they stood alone in the hallway. Her family had dispersed: her father in the kitchen, her mother in the living room with Alia, her sister and her sister’s fiancé gone upstairs. </p><p> </p><p>Once Elliott had made clear his offer to stay was genuine, even Lisa had left to go to the station.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "To do my job," she said flatly, her words a quiet rebuke to Elliott's agreement to stay outside the Moxam home that first night. "To find the man who kidnapped Ivy." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And that was important, surely. But so, too, was Ivy’s request for someone to stay. For him to stay.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy had taken a small step forward.</p><p> </p><p>His breath caught in his throat. He raised his hand to shake in automatic courtesy before realising Ivy wouldn't want to touch anyone, not now.<br/>
<br/>
Before he could lower his proffered hand, Ivy took his hand in two of her own. Her palms were soft and cool, and for a moment he felt struck by the certainty his hands were unbearably rough, too clumsy to hold hers. But she didn’t pull away.</p><p> </p><p>Confidence surged through him. He squeezed her hand softly and some unidentifiable emotion caught at the corner of her eyes, made them crinkle. His heart gave an unexpected <em> thump. </em> </p><p> </p><p>That's the moment he should have left it and stepped away. He could have survived it if he had just stepped away then. But it was too late. </p><p> </p><p>His heart, such as it was, had been caught.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you, DI Carne," Ivy said, her voice a near-whisper. </p><p> </p><p>Even in the dim lighting and under the sharp rise of her cheekbone, her skin was luminous. For a moment, it was hard to tell if she was an angel, or a ghost. </p><p> </p><p>Looking back, Elliott recognised the delicate tendrils of fate as they wrapped all around them then, softly touching where their hands intertwined. That overwhelming certainty swallowed them all up—their bodies and the silver light spilling down from the window set above the front door, the cool touch of the air and the lemon scent of the floor cleaner—the moment encompassed in its entirety felt suspended from time. For a split second, they were truly alone.</p><p> </p><p>Then she let go of his hand. The certainty felt like it had been ripped away. </p><p> </p><p>“Ivy,” Elliott said, and he was surprised at how his voice sounded raw. Like it had been scraped out of him. </p><p> </p><p>It had been an impossibly long day and would likely prove even longer. She would go up to bed and he would go outside to keep watch, perhaps watch her interviews again for any clues that might help track down her kidnapper. He wouldn’t sleep, and she, he was sure, would do the same. </p><p> </p><p>He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Ms. Moxam.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy tilted her head. For the first time, something bright flashed through her expression. It was almost humorous. “Ivy, please.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ivy,” Elliott repeated, eyes drawn to that near-smile, before he remembered suddenly he had wanted to give her something. He fumbled for his silver card case and pulled out one of his business cards. Nearly grabbing her hand again, he stopped just short, instead just offering the card to her. </p><p> </p><p>As he held his hand out, a sharp sense of déjà vu struck him, though he couldn't pinpoint <em> why </em> at that moment. It was only later he would look back and see the overlay. Only in retrospect were the repeating patterns he always stepped into laid clear for him to see. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Patterns seem inescapable to those caught in them. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ivy peered at the card for a moment, then pulled it from his hand with delicate fingers. She held it between her thumb and forefinger as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with it.</p><p> </p><p>“If you have any questions, or you're worried about something, or you remember—well, anything. Anything at all, really, just—just ring that number. It doesn't matter the time,” Elliott said, trying for his official officer voice but not quite making it. His tone still felt too <em> personal. </em> “I promise, it'll never be a bother. Any time.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy nodded. She looked tired beyond belief. Behind her dark eyes, she seemed to be aching for something he couldn't quite name.</p><p> </p><p>For himself, all he wanted to do was pick her up in the threshold of her home, carry her up the carpeted stairs to her room and let her sleep as he stood guard there. He wanted to make sure she was safe. </p><p> </p><p>But he had a job to do. At the time he had been sure there would be officers assigned for her protection. Elliott’s job actually wasn’t to hang around her house and watch her every moment—his job was to find her kidnapper and bring him in so Ivy could be truly safe, once and for all. That first night, she had asked him to stay, so he would. But he had a bigger purpose than that. </p><p> </p><p>At the time, it was all he could do. Even then it felt like so little. It felt like not nearly <em> enough. </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Ivy said. Despite her exhaustion, this time there was a spark of light to it, too, some small hope in her voice. She had always amazed him like that. These small proofs that she still lived. She curled the card into her palms and pulled her clasped hands to her chest. “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott was sure in his bones he was going to make everything alright. Ivy would be free and happy, even if he had to die to bring that future about. </p><p> </p><p>No surprise then, that everything went to absolute <em> shite </em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>As he tried to sleep, all Elliott could see was Ivy walking up the front walk to her house after she had disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>After she ran away the first time, he drove her home, with her sitting in the front seat of the unmarked vehicle next to him. </p><p> </p><p>They were quiet. Lisa was at the station, where the investigation was still underway. Despite how he had tried to reassure her earlier, Ivy still seemed embarrassed. </p><p> </p><p>She bit her lip, forehead crinkling as she stared out of the window. He wondered briefly how strange it might still be for her to be in a car, after all those years locked inside a house. He wondered what it would be like for her if she ever rode a bus, or took a train. Or a cab. Would she be frightened, or quietly curious, as she was now?</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to meet that future self of hers. He wanted to meet the woman who rode a bus without a second thought, who booked a train ticket without thinking of those thirteen years where she had lived in stasis. His throat felt tight at this future woman, whose hazel eyes caught the light as they looked up, across the flashing scenery with such wonder. </p><p> </p><p><em> She would be beautiful. </em> </p><p> </p><p>“I'm glad you're alright,” he said, which was not quite what he had intended to say. He cleared his throat. “Thought we lost you for a second there.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just—” Ivy blinked and looked away. Again her posture curled in on itself, her voice tightened. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make everyone worry.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked over at her and back to the road. He ran a hand through his beard. “Well, your family'll worry all the time, I'm certain. But that's not your fault.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess,” Ivy shrugged. “But I meant—well, I meant, just because I couldn’t… I didn’t mean to scare the police. Or worry everyone else.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott couldn't help a chuckle. The idea that Ivy could make the whole lot of them scared was just on this side of ridiculous. He had been worried out of his mind, sure, but that was… different. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked at him with wide eyes that were just the slightest bit scandalised. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, we’re worried all the time,” he assured her, clamping down on his smile. He was mostly just relieved she was back. “The force, the service, what'll you call it, down to the lowest trainee. ‘S more or less a job requirement, to be worried. Naturally suspicious, the lot of us. Always looking over our shoulders.”</p><p> </p><p>“That can't be true,” Ivy breathed.</p><p> </p><p>“We are. Really. You didn't make it any worse than usual.” </p><p> </p><p>Ivy narrowed her eyes. “You're scared all the time?”</p><p> </p><p>“Would turn into a pile of jelly if I could,” Elliott replied with a straight a face he could manage, “but the badge means I've got to keep it in. Not much use in an investigation, jelly is.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy stared at him with such concentration that Elliott couldn't help but crack a small smile. She caught it almost immediately. “Oh, you're full of it,” she cried, but there was a lightness to her voice that hadn't been there before. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott grinned, relieved and gratified his joke worked. “Full of jelly, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head and said nothing, but a smile curved her lips regardless. </p><p> </p><p>He would keep the image of that smile close, a small secret folded up in the corner of his heart. Like a token that he could pull out and remember, to answer with a smile of his own. </p><p> </p><p>And then they were on her street. Elliott pulled the car to a stop across the road from her house. The daylight had faded to a muted blue twilight, spreading purple shadows across the perfectly trimmed lawn and sculpted hedgerows that lined her front garden. Down in the valley that framed the house, the streetlamps were flicking on all over the city. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment they were quiet, the silence shifting perceptibly as they were reminded of who they were. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy leaned across Elliott to look at the house, her face unreadable. The faint trace of perfume, vanilla or something like, wafted to Elliott and he was suddenly aware of how close she was, how he could hear her soft breaths overlaid on his.</p><p> </p><p>His heart did a curious little leap. Elliott forced himself to look away from her, down the road. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott could easily pick out an unmarked police vehicle at the end of the road, and they had passed another on the way in. In front of the house was a marked squad car, one uniformed officer inside, and he knew there had to be more officers round the back. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy pulled back with a breath.</p><p> </p><p>Her family was likely inside already, waiting for her. She was well-protected, now. </p><p> </p><p>So why was he suddenly so reluctant to let her go? He'd realise, later—her own hesitation, the way her hands trembled as she wrapped the ends of her sweater around them, the slight downturn of her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>But that evening, when Elliott looked over at her, all he recognised was the reflection of the lamplight in her dark eyes, the way her hair framed her small face. As he breathed in, he could smell that sweet vanilla emanating from her skin. He felt only his own hesitation, his desire to draw the moment long—none of her reluctance in leaving, none of her nervous energy—so he let her go.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Ivy said, her soft voice filling the car. “For everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Course,” Elliott replied. His throat suddenly felt tight. He tilted his head towards her house. “D’you want me to walk you up?”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy smiled, a teasing note to her voice. “I think I can manage it, DI Carne.”</p><p> </p><p>“Elliott.” He cleared his throat, feeling a bit overheated. “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p> </p><p>Why had he just said that? His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Er, well, if you'd like, you can call me Elliott.”</p><p> </p><p>Something flashed across her face, before a smile bloomed there. “Elliott,” she repeated. </p><p> </p><p>"That's it." There was that curious leap of his heart again. “Good night, Ms. Moxam.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ivy, please.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Mischief, or something like, flashed in Ivy's eyes. “We've been over this. Call me Ivy, please.” </p><p> </p><p>“Alright,” Elliott said, trying for serious, “Ivy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, <em> Elliott </em>,” Ivy said with mock-seriousness, her voice dropped low like his.</p><p> </p><p>Her concentrating face made Elliott laugh outright, as if he had no care in the world. It shocked him how light it made him feel, even the smallest of her jokes. His chuckles faded into a crooked smile. “Alright, alright, you’ve got me there. I think we're sorted now.” He leaned in, eyes focussed on hers. “Ivy.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy met his gaze with the same intensity, an eyebrow raised. She leaned in slightly, too. “Elliott.” </p><p> </p><p>There was a beat of curious tension between them. Awareness sparked up the back of Elliott's spine. He felt strangely as if he should<em> do something </em> but the only thing that came to his rapidly whirling mind was two words: 'Kiss her.'</p><p> </p><p>And he couldn’t do that. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy pulled back. He hadn't even realised how close she had been. They had both leaned in, gazes locked on each other. </p><p> </p><p>He eased back into his seat. His heart beat rapidly in his throat and for a moment he was almost sure she could hear it, that she <em> knew </em> something. Like she had heard his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>But Ivy's eyes just softened into something like her usual expression. "Thank you, Elliott."</p><p> </p><p>Ivy went to open the car door, but hesitated. She turned back and looked at him. A feverish thought flashed across his mind: for a brief, brilliant moment he thought <em> she </em> was going to kiss <em> him </em>. But after a second, she just reached out and grasped his hand that rested on the steering wheel.</p><p> </p><p>“Good night,” she said, and squeezed his hand. Her hand was impossibly cool and soft.</p><p> </p><p>He had just enough time to turn his wrist and squeeze it back before she was pulling away. She had slipped out the door and was already running across the road by the time he found the voice to respond. </p><p> </p><p>“Good night,” he repeated softly to himself. “Ivy.” </p><p> </p><p>His voice sounded very far away, and full of a longing he didn't understand. </p><p> </p><p>As she turned into the front gate of the garden, her hair swung out in a graceful wave under the lamplight. A perfect arc, her body poised as if in flight. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott was struck by the idea of how much easier it would be for her if she could lift her arms and have them become wings. If only the pale skin could become brilliant white feathers, the wind could lift her, her feet leaving the ground, body dissolving into nothingness—in a moment, she could leave her human body behind and become a bird in flight. She could be free.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Three months after Maggie first stepped into the station, her calls abruptly stopped. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott rang her after the first full day had passed, but there was no response. He waited, anxiety and a strong sense of unease gnawing at his stomach. Normally, she'd contact him at least once a day so the delay was unusual, if not outright terrifying. </p><p> </p><p>A second day passed with no calls, or even texts. Elliott was restless all day, distracted. When he got off work in the evening, he headed straight over to her house. He drove through the dark streets with his mind halfway gone with worry. </p><p> </p><p>He parked the car down at the far end of the road, where he had a clear view of her front door. Her husband's lorry was parked in front, and the lights in the living room were on. </p><p> </p><p>His heart beat in his throat, quick as a hare in pursuit, but everything seemed normal. Elliott had no official reason to be there so he stayed in the car, eyes on that one bright window he knew was the master bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered if Maggie was in there, looking out for him as he was looking in for her. They were so close to each other and yet those few metres up to her door might as well have been an ocean between them. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott's car was a prison locked down around him as night tightened its grip over the city. He couldn’t go to the door without risking her safety, but nor could he leave without feeling he left her in the greatest danger. All of his calls went unanswered, and his texts, unseen. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, in the dark, he fell into a fitful sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Hours later, as the dawn filtered through the cloudy sky, Elliott awoke with a jump. His mobile was buzzing across the car seat next to him. That must have been the reason he woke up. He blinked, looking out at the lifeless estate, the brick building still under the grey morning. </p><p> </p><p>As he reached over to pick up the call, an eerie sense of dread filled him. It was only when he picked up—the voice of DI Miller requesting that he come in immediately, they had gotten a call, a man on the bridge, the description so familiar—did Elliott realise what it was. </p><p> </p><p>Something had shifted overnight. Some impossible piece that had kept his world together had dissolved under the weight of the night sky. </p><p> </p><p>And in the early morning hour, Elliott looked across at Maggie’s flat, the brick facade faded red under the diffuse light. All the lights that had spilled out over the yellowing yard were out. The windows seemed small and dark. The rooms beyond seemed empty. It was as if no one were home—as if no one would ever be home again. </p><p> </p><p>His mobile slipped from his hand.</p><p> </p><p>It struck him like a lightning strike to his chest, heat and pain lancing through him. He realised what it was about the sight that had made his heart drop straight through his stomach: Maggie’s front door was ajar, and her husband’s lorry was gone. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t even remember getting out of the car. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Ivy never called the police directly, only Elliott. He told himself this was for the best, although he knew better than that—and he was fairly certain Ivy knew better, too.</p><p> </p><p>But there was a reason he had given her his number, and he couldn't take it back now. Besides, for those two brief weeks, mostly they just talked. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy opened slowly, but beautifully. The cowering exterior she had adopted to shield herself from the worst of the abuse would slip away sometimes and she would be funny and teasing in a way he knew she wasn't around her family, or even her lost friends. </p><p> </p><p>There were moments when she would sound like Elliott imagined she could have, once, if she had never been captured. </p><p> </p><p>It was dangerous, that. Thinking of Ivy as if she were just a woman he had met at the pub, or been set up with through friends. As soon as he disconnected her warm voice over the phone—soft in his ear as he wandered around the nearby park on his break, or he fixed up some dinner—from her case, everything became impossibly dangerous. </p><p> </p><p>They teetered on the edge of something not-quite-right, not-quite-wrong. </p><p> </p><p>They never spoke of the case directly, which made it easier to pretend. And it was just that—<em> talking </em>. Nothing bad. Nothing unethical. He ignored how his heart would beat in his throat as he rang her, or when her number appeared on the screen. He told himself it was just because he was worried she would disappear again or vanish in plain sight. And maybe that was true. </p><p> </p><p>But the fear was tightly woven in with something else—something darker, <em> fiercer </em> than that. Something that made him want to bring her close to him. Something that made him never want to lose her again.</p><p> </p><p>He needed to protect her. <em> This time, </em> he couldn't fail her. </p><p> </p><p>Dreams, when he managed to fall asleep deeply enough to have them, were fraught with visions of her disappearance: her faint goodbye on a bridge, her slight form swallowed again into the mundane repetitions of terraced houses with identical green gates and squared-off roofs oh-so-indistinguishable from the next.</p><p> </p><p>She had disappeared so faultlessly the first time, it seemed inevitable that it would be easier the next. But the reality was even crueler than that. Because the reality was, if she disappeared again, she might never be found.</p><p> </p><p>The idea terrified him in a way he couldn’t even articulate.</p><p> </p><p>He sensed they tread a thin line that cut between professional and personal. For now, they remained each on their own side. </p><p> </p><p>With every phone call, every secret conversation, they drew closer to that fraught line day by day. </p><p> </p><p>It was easy to convince himself it would be fine: they didn't need to cross it. He could protect her like this, support her more easily without all the rules and the prodding questions and accusing eyes at the station. He could tell her the truth, unlike so many other people in her life right now. He could believe her wholeheartedly. </p><p> </p><p>She needed that, he told himself. Not when everyone else seemed intent on misunderstanding her.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa didn't believe Ivy’s story, which was a mistake. The more she needled Ivy in their interviews, the more Ivy dug in her heels—and the cycle continued, with Lisa pushing Ivy and Ivy relentlessly pushing back. </p><p> </p><p>But Lisa wouldn't listen to Elliott's protests. Any time he implored herself to soften her questioning, she accused him of being too easily taken in ‘with a pretty face and a woman who <em> needs </em> you.’ And, well, it wasn't something Elliott could deny the truth of. </p><p> </p><p>But someone needed to talk to Ivy in whatever way she felt most comfortable.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's family couldn't ask her what happened, if what she said was true (and Elliott was committed to believing her, because the other option was far, far worse). She told him they tried to keep up the appearance of a happy life, but she seemed to think they were lying. </p><p> </p><p>Though it made unease settle even deeper into his gut, Elliott didn't tell her what he had heard of her parents’ separation. He tried whatever he could to comfort her doubts without giving it away. With her childhood streets wiped from the map and the city she thought she knew gone giving her so much grief already, the absolute implosion of her parents’ marriage seemed the last thing she seemed equipped to handle, at the moment. Moreover, it wasn’t his place.</p><p> </p><p>Her old friends danced on eggshells around her. They didn't know what to say most of the time, even if all she seemed to want was someone to talk to. Ivy didn’t seem sure what she expected from them but still confessed to him that so much of the time they didn't meet her expectations—even Tim. </p><p> </p><p>The realisation made a strange ripple of relief wash over Elliott, when Ivy mentioned it. <em> So, the great crush wasn't perfect after all, </em> he thought, smug. </p><p> </p><p>It was ridiculous and dangerous and <em> impossible </em> to think of Ivy like this. Like someone Elliott needed to compete for. Like someone he should support. Like someone he should lo— <em> take care of </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Even Elliott could admit it to himself: it was already a situation careening toward disaster—and with their clandestine calls it was as if he had just hit the accelerator.</p><p> </p><p>Then the second girl was taken. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shite. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>"Elliott?" </p><p> </p><p>It was the end of the first week, after five or six nights of these calls. They were waiting for the meeting room to be cleared so they could record their next interview. Lisa had disappeared down the hall, to yell at a few people for not clearing the space earlier and to rustle up a video camera from the tech crew. For a minute, he and Ivy were left alone waiting in the hall, subject to a few discreet looks and the occasional whisper as people occasionally filtered past.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked at him. A blush had risen over her fair cheeks. "Can I ask you..." she began, then bit her lip. </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah?" Elliott tilted his head. "Anything."</p><p> </p><p>"It's embarrassing, really," she continued, her voice even quieter than before.</p><p> </p><p>"'S okay. It doesn't matter. I'll answer it best I can."</p><p> </p><p>"Off the record?" she asked. Her eyebrows raised and he almost felt like she was teasing him a bit. She really was picking up terms quite fast, for someone who must have only had the barest idea of police procedures before she got kidnapped.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, absolutely. Off the record, anything." He turned completely toward her, hands spread wide. "Have at me with your burning questions, please."</p><p> </p><p>Ivy grinned, if a little nervously. "Okay, um, so Emma and I were—well, I had a nightmare and didn't want to sleep alone.” She shrugged off the obvious discomfort, eyes flitting up and down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott watched her, as she seemed to struggle with her next words. </p><p> </p><p>He looked over at her. “Ivy?”</p><p> </p><p>She took a breath, and looked at him. Her eyes were clear. “I didn’t want to sleep alone,” she said. “So, I accidentally saw her and Craig. Last night. When I went into her room they were, you know…” she paused awkwardly. “Um, having sex. Or about to have sex."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt his face flush. "Alright," he responded, his voice only a wee bit more gruff than usual.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy stared at him like she wanted him to continue.</p><p> </p><p>He quirked an eyebrow, trying to regain his footing. "That's not a question, lass." His accent always seemed to come out stronger when he was uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy was silent for a moment. Her gaze darted away and then back. "I've had sex, you know?" she said, her voice hiding an unexpected edge. "It's not as though I've never heard of it, or not done it. I am a woman."</p><p> </p><p>"Right." Elliott's voice was neutral. He didn't know if he'd classify what happened between Ivy and Mark White as anything as deceptively innocuous as 'sex', though sex itself was hardly simple. </p><p> </p><p>He thought of Lisa’s words to the forensic tech when they had been searching Mark White’s house and found strands of Ivy’s hair in his bed. What had she said? <em> You don’t know the situation, if it was consensual— </em> but fuck, there was no need for qualifiers. Nothing about that situation had been consensual. Regardless of Ivy’s age.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not a child."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott made himself keep his expression even. </p><p> </p><p>And though the media seemed intent on framing the kidnapping and Ivy's reticence in speaking with them as if she were some sheltered wain, hardly out of primary, the truth of it was she had been taken as a teenager. Years filled with abuse and deprivations most could never even imagine had passed, and she had survived them all. She could hardly be accused of being a child. </p><p> </p><p>That much he'd vouch for, at least, though those were the exact words his ten year old nephew yelled in the midst of a tantrum. “Right.”</p><p> </p><p>This just seemed to frustrate Ivy more. Her eyes narrowed. "I've had sex. I <em> understand </em> what it is. I just—" she shook her head. Her hands were clutching the ends of her sweater tightly. "I guess I just don't know why—well, I'm just curious as to why people… like it."</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him, brows furrowed. She looked nearly ready to fight. Elliott could not have been more off-kilter than he currently was. </p><p> </p><p>"Don't they?" she demanded. "Like it?"</p><p> </p><p>"People like it," Elliott repeated numbly. He ran a nervous hand through his beard, trying desperately to recover his footing. "Yeah, people like it. Not everyone, though—" he hurried on, when something in Ivy's face fell. "And given what you've been through—"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't,” Ivy cut in sharply. Her eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me what I've been through. I don’t need anyone else <em> telling me </em> what happened to me. I know."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott nodded, raising a hand in something close to supplication. Christ. He needed more training for this. "Yeah, ‘course you do. Just, alright, not everybody likes... sex," he said. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. Why the bloody hell was he so nervous? "And yeah, not everybody likes sex all the time. Nobody likes it all the time, I don't think."</p><p> </p><p>Ivy frowned, looking confused for the first time. "What do you mean?"</p><p> </p><p>"Sometimes ye like it one time, with one person, and then not another time with the same person. And then sometimes it's them you can't get on with at all. Really depends.”</p><p> </p><p>"But <em> why </em> do it again if you didn't like it the first time? If you didn’t like it, why even bother?” Ivy looked torn between genuine curiosity and disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>"You don't ever have to, if you don't want to," Elliott said quickly, trying to anticipate where this was going. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy's expression told him she wasn't quite buying it. </p><p> </p><p>Even he wasn't quite buying what he was saying. Sexual politics in a relationship or out of it could be complicated enough as it were, without all the baggage that came with Ivy's backstory. He just didn't know how to frame it without outright saying anything she did with Mark White was unlike what she'd encounter with the right person, the right situation. That what Mark White had done was abuse, not just sex.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, he settled on: "It’s complicated, I s’pose. If you like the person, you might want to give it another go. Might not. And even if ye didnt enjoy it the one time round with one person, you could with someone else."</p><p> </p><p>"But I might not," Ivy said, finally saying what Elliott didn't want to. “Even if it's with someone else.”</p><p> </p><p>"You might not," he agreed, a tad reluctant.</p><p> </p><p>"Ever."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott held back the assurances that she would be able to enjoy sex one day, that she'd find someone who could take care of her, that would treat her carefully and make her happy, give her what Mark White never had. But it wasn't close to anything he'd be able to promise, much less something he knew she wanted to be promised.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded, masking the grim look under placidity. "Yeah. Ever."</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked away. </p><p> </p><p>He could almost feel her pulling back into herself and he clamped down on his first reaction, which was trying to chase her down that rabbit hole, hold her back from the unknown paths her thoughts would tread alone. Her face was carefully blank, unreadable.</p><p> </p><p>After a long silence, Ivy let out a tiny sigh. It seemed nearly unconscious.</p><p> </p><p>"How do you know?"</p><p> </p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked over at him. "How do you know if it might be right? If you might like sex with this… this person?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shrugged, a feeling going in a sharp zap down his spine. He barely understood how to explain it to himself, really, and here he was trying to explain sexual attraction to someone who likely never knew it before. “You'll feel it,” he said, knowing the answer was inadequate.</p><p> </p><p>“Feel what?”</p><p> </p><p>Christ, but how was he to answer that? Heat crawled up his neck under his tight collar. “You feel, er, sort of drawn to someone. You want to touch them. You want to kiss them, and you imagine…” he trailed off, not sure how to continue. He coughed into his fist. </p><p> </p><p>“You imagine what?” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott shot Ivy a look. Her eyebrows were raised and she was looking at him with such expectation he couldn't accuse her of winding him up. Where he should start, though, he couldn't quite fathom. </p><p> </p><p>But Ivy seemed to misunderstand his look and switched subjects. </p><p> </p><p>“When you ‘want to touch’ them, what do you mean? You just want to—” and Ivy stepped closer, raising a hand until it was an inch from Elliott's cheek, “—do <em> this?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>He swore he could feel the heat of her fingers against his skin. Her eyes were fastened on his face, unerring and focussed. He was glad of the quiet, the way he could hear her soft breath and the gentle swish of her clothes as she looked up at him, wanting and guileless and <em> perfect</em>. He didn’t even know that’s what he thought perfect might look like, but as he looked down at her, all he could think was: <em>yes. </em></p><p> </p><p>He was supposed to be teaching her but she seemed to already know what to do. Gently he raised his hand and clasped hers, guiding it to his cheek. Her eyes flickered in surprise, but she didn't pull away. And when he pressed her hand to his cheek, she ran her thumb over the rise of his cheekbone.</p><p> </p><p>It felt like a live wire ran under his skin, sparking and light, making his heart jolt in his chest. Her light touch skated down his cheek and heat trailed after. It was so light but his skin felt aflame with it. </p><p> </p><p>She breathed in and stepped closer, gaze luminous in the half-light. Expectation made his breath short. </p><p> </p><p>What did it feel like, she asked? </p><p> </p><p><em> What did it feel like to want someone so intensely you felt ready to die when your hands were the only things touching, when the quiet lilt of their voice made your heartbeat spike in your chest? </em> Elliott thought.</p><p> </p><p><em> It felt exactly like this, </em> he wanted to say.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The house was so silent Elliott had finally managed to drift into something close to sleep, even with the worst sleeping position in history. Dreams floated around him like slight shifts in the atmosphere. His sleep was so light he felt like the world was slowly sliding away from him. His mind descended into a buzzing, hopeless sort of nonsense, even as his body unconsciously remained held tight on the stair. </p><p> </p><p>A sudden creak on the floorboard snapped him out of the half-sleep.</p><p> </p><p>He kept his eyes shut for another moment. If it was an intruder and they thought he was still asleep, surprise would be valuable.</p><p> </p><p>There was another soft tread, closer now, and Elliott felt his heartbeat tick up when he recognised it. <em> Ivy. </em></p><p> </p><p>He opened his eyes slowly to see Ivy standing halfway out her bedroom door. Her hand still curled around the doorframe, her brown hair messy with lying on a pillow if not sleep, limbs clad in her soft pajamas. The faint reflection of the streetlamp made her features glow, softly defined in the faded light. </p><p> </p><p>She was staring at him with a curious sort of intensity, though there was an obvious hesitance in her posture, too. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott's gaze meeting hers made her blink. Her quick inhale was loud in the quiet night. </p><p> </p><p>Something about the immediacy of the gesture, the change in her breathing, told him something was about to happen. Something had changed, though he didn’t know what, or why. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn't speak. What could he say? </p><p> </p><p>Ivy shuffled closer, hand still stretched out towards the doorframe, as if she could get no farther away from her door than this, lest something terrible happen. </p><p> </p><p>“I can't sleep,” Ivy whispered, lips barely moving as they formed the words. “There's…” she began but trailed off, her gaze darting towards her dimly-lit room.  </p><p> </p><p>Elliott shifted up, bracing one hand on the landing, all senses suddenly on alert. “What's wrong?” he murmured, keeping his voice low enough not to disturb anyone else in the house. She was oddly calm for there to be an intruder, so it had to be something else. </p><p> </p><p>He rose stealthily, ignoring the twinge of pain in his back and the shooting feeling of one foot that had fallen asleep. In a moment he was beside her on the landing, barely a creak from the floor under his quick tread. Not all his training had been lost.</p><p> </p><p>Up close, the sweet scent of her conditioner had been softened by sleep. It made Elliott want to wrap her up and put her back in bed. Her eyes tracked over his face, quick as a flash, but she didn't say anything. </p><p> </p><p>“Ivy?” he whispered, hand slipping into his blazer pocket. He could ring backup and they'd be up in a second. They could whisk her to safety faster than her family could wake and realise she was gone. “What's wrong, love?” </p><p> </p><p>The epithet slipped out of him before he could stop it. Something about the quality of the darkness, thick like a blanket and quiet as if under a layer of fresh snow, made him feel closer to Ivy than he ever had. They seemed cloaked in a safe sort of shadow, here in the half-night.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's lips parted. Her eyes were curiously alert in the low light and they tracked over his face: from his eyes, cheek, lips, beard, and down the front of his oxford to his clenched fist. She didn't say a word, but it was as if her hand was tracing where her eyes had tracked, her light touch down his body trailing heat in its wake that made Elliott want to shiver. </p><p> </p><p>How could he? He felt as if he couldn't even breathe, waiting for her. Waiting for something to change. </p><p> </p><p>Again, her gaze flicked up to his. </p><p> </p><p>Caught. <em> Held. </em></p><p> </p><p>And the world tilted again. That heat-strike pain resounded through his chest, echoes of a lifetime ache in his heart.</p><p> </p><p>With a small exhale, she turned and disappeared into her room. </p><p> </p><p>And Elliott, as if his heart was on a lead, followed. </p><p> </p><p>He knew, even then, that he should have never have followed her in there. Should have never walked behind her, following the sweet scent of vanilla that emanated from her skin. He should have never told himself he was doing it to protect her, to see what the problem was. He should have never lied, to himself, or in the investigation later. </p><p> </p><p>But before all of that, before <em> this </em> , he should never have imagined her warmth. He should have never imagined his lips on the soft, hot skin at the base of her neck when he was searching for sleep, wondering at what the feeling of her hands reaching back and cupping his face would be like, with her voice saying, softly, searchingly, <em> "Elliott." </em></p><p> </p><p>He should have never imagined what it would feel like, slipping her sweater up over her head, her long hair spilling over her pale shoulders like a wave, her quick inhalation as they stepped closer together. He should have never imagined the very real weight of her body on his, the soft curve of her hips under his hands, her smooth skin against his, the heat between her thighs. </p><p> </p><p>That first night, as he sat in the car outside of her house, he should have never looked up. Towards the house, with its bright windows shielded by thin curtains. And there in the corner, he had looked up and seen a flash of movement—here in Ivy’s room. A figure framed in her window had stood wrapped in light, shoulders bare, hair a dark line over her shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>She had been looking out the window at him. </p><p> </p><p>No, he should have never gotten this far. Fallen this far.</p><p> </p><p>He should never have followed her. Never. </p><p> </p><p>But he did. And the terrible thing was, even knowing everything that came after, he would again. Without hesitation. Just like the first time. </p><p> </p><p>There was an inexorable tug on his heart when she turned and walked away, and he felt like could do nothing but follow its command. Her door closed with a quiet <em> click </em> behind him as he scaled the carpeted steps into her room, gazing up at the dim shadows that flitted across the pointed ceiling, taking in the mussed sheets and the glass of water on the nightstand, the bedside lamp turned on low, the dim circle of its light spreading a milky glow across the sheets and the carpet under their feet.</p><p> </p><p>Heart beating high in his throat, Elliott felt as though he were in a dream, some strange, otherworldly place that was disconnected in some fundamental way from real life. </p><p> </p><p>Here, things were possible. He didn't feel like a police officer, didn't feel like a Detective Inspector. </p><p> </p><p>He was just a man being led into a room by a woman, his heart in his throat, every nerve ending on high. His skin felt flush with heat, his body disconnected from everything but her. From Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>The curtains were pulled shut and the soft light wasn't strong enough to throw their shadows through the thick fabric. </p><p> </p><p>He had thought he could make her feel safe if only he could find her captor. But here, in this space, he felt like she had created this space for them both. In her room, he felt, for the first time, safe.</p><p> </p><p>She stopped and turned around. Her eyes met his, dark and wanting and something <em> more,</em> something he didn’t quite understand. But something he felt like he could give her, if she would just take it. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, he felt suspended in time. His hands waited for hers to find them, his hands <em> wanting </em> to hold her, his heart aching for her to draw close, bring herself to him, soft, hot skin sliding under his unworthy hands, her breath brushing across his lips. They stood so close it seemed impossible that this could not be the outcome.</p><p> </p><p>Then she took his face in her hands, and he was lost—he was gone. Her touch was so gentle it was nearly reverent: an angel blessing the skin of an acolyte, a pilgrim reaching for a salvation from a saint.</p><p> </p><p>His hands rose up as hers slid down his face and they met in the heart of the space between their bodies. For a long moment that was the only place they were touching. For a heartbeat, they stood with their hands intertwined, the beside lamp behind glowing like a candle tucked into a hidden nave in a church, with they the lone devotees. </p><p> </p><p>A vow pressed at his lips, unspoken. But even unsaid, it was made, just the same. </p><p> </p><p>Her lips parted around a similar, silent vow. </p><p> </p><p>Above their heads, the vaulted ceiling of her bedroom glowed, a chapel filled with light.</p><p> </p><p>Then Ivy knelt down, pulling Elliott to the carpeted floor. He slid to his knees before her, desperate and wanting, her touch the only balm for the heat threatening to overtake them both. And it was over; it was all over, just as it had begun. </p><p> </p><p>With sorrow and the heat-strike pain of love.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Elliott remembered it all as if in a dream, everything curiously separate from him but visible in all its brilliant colour, sounds reverberating in strange echoes across his mind. How he had stumbled up the concrete steps and pushed the front door open with his elbow, aware of the echoing silence taking over that grey morning like a tidal wave of nothingness. How he thought it couldn't be true, it wasn't real—no, no, it wasn't possible, he had <em> been there </em>, it wasn't—</p><p> </p><p>Through the darkened foyer, around the corner that led to the living room. The same white walls as before, the same images of the Cornish seaside that Elliott had promised, in one faraway conversation, that Maggie would see again. He had been so foolish, so full of hope and the desire to do <em> right </em> and where did that get him?</p><p> </p><p>Walking across the same wooden floors, his footsteps echoing through that same, small space. Dread heavy in his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>And there she was. </p><p> </p><p>There she lay prone on the beige carpet, a darkened pool of blood surrounding her head. One hand curled up near her face and one twisted awkwardly down her side, scratches and bruises across the skin livid in the light. </p><p> </p><p><em> Maggie</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott said her name, he was sure, said it again and again. But she didn't move, her chest didn't rise and fall, her eyes remained half-open. She was so still. </p><p> </p><p>She was <em> so still. </em></p><p> </p><p>Elliott's breath felt like it couldn't fill up his chest. His heart was in a vise, twisting up and up and it hurt so much he felt like he was about to choke. <em> How could she—how did this </em> — <em> who hurt— </em>his face burnt hot with unshed tears. </p><p> </p><p>At the edge of the room, where the wood floors of the entry gave way to carpet, he fell to his knees. He couldn't go over to her, he <em> couldn't </em>. Not without fucking up the evidence. Not without ruining any chance they had at catching her killer. He couldn’t touch her. Not again. She was forever on her side, and he on his. </p><p> </p><p><em> Failed. </em> He had failed. Guilt made its painful way up his throat like a monster clawing its way from the darkness. She was gone and he had done nothing. He had done worse than nothing, because— <em> what if her husband had found out? What if he knew about the calls, the hours of talking, how close they had been to— </em>a thought struck him so sharply it was as if he had been stabbed. </p><p> </p><p>He may have gotten her killed. </p><p> </p><p>In that moment, he felt certain. It was his fault. He had gotten her killed. She was dead because of him. But for what? And why?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It came back to him then—that moment in the hallway, light spilling over her shoulders, that tragedy twining its invisible way around them both, binding them both in an impossibly twisted fate. He remembered it as a moment disconnected from time. Was it real or fake? Was it past, or was it a future he had not yet seen? </p><p> </p><p>All he could be sure of was the heat of their hands as he handed over his card, and it was his heart that had left his hands that day. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing hard until black spun into colours and dizzying patterns. No. <em> No </em>. </p><p> </p><p>The pain forced him to focus. </p><p> </p><p>Even through the blinding pain, he knew what he had to do. There were perhaps only a few minutes left before his world came crashing down around him. Before this dream world connected with the very real world of the police. If he wanted to be in on this investigation, he couldn’t be seen here. </p><p> </p><p>He pulled himself to his feet. At the very least, he needed to leave the house, <em> now. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He stumbled out the door and walked unsteadily down the path to his car. The street was empty and the houses all around were quiet. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely get the car door open. </p><p> </p><p>When he put the key in the ignition and turned, the rumble of the engine seemed absolutely <em> deafening </em> in the early morning quiet. He was disconnected from his body, barely conscious of what he was doing. </p><p> </p><p>He turned the car and drove down the road, away from Maggie, away from it all. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know how it happened, which was mad in and of itself. Or he knew, but it didn’t make sense—except it did, perfectly, in a way that made his head spin and his heart felt ready to beat out of his chest with how wildly it was beating. But his hands were slow and his breath was only a tiny bit harsher than usual, because how could it not be?</p><p> </p><p>He had Ivy in his arms, holding carefully, he was, and damned bloody sure he always would up until he stopped breathing for the last time. That was how right it felt to have her there, lying next to him on the floor in her room, faint light filtering in through her small window from the streetlamp beyond.</p><p> </p><p>But Christ, she had no such compunction over touching him and her delicate hands, those hands he had watched clutch tightly to each other during interrogation, long fingers folded together, bare knuckles so strangely tender and fragile. And now they were sliding through his hair, those fingers were, and Ivy was pressing herself to him. </p><p> </p><p>He could feel the soft rise of her chest against his, the way each of her breaths fell into each of his, even before they kissed. And, most painful of all were the sweetest, most needful little moans from Ivy that Elliott felt through his lips, his chest, his <em> heart </em>, before he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, softly, asking.  </p><p> </p><p>And Ivy was arching right up toward him when he pulled away, her eyes half-open, dark lashes cutting a soft line across her gaze, because she was looking at his mouth, wasn’t she, her lips opened and pink in the golden light? </p><p> </p><p>“Ivy,” he murmured, the name against her lips reminding her he knew who she was. He would not call her by any other name but her own. <em> “Ivy.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Elliott brushed a hand down her neck, touching but not grasping because he would not <em> pull, </em> he would not make her come closer if she didn’t want to. They were on a knife’s edge and the fall from this height would kill him, shatter him to absolute pieces, but he would prefer that to hurting her. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyelashes fluttered and he felt her breath hitch in her chest as it pressed against his. </p><p> </p><p>“Elliott,” she sighed, and her hands slid through his hair to cup the cut of his jaw, softly at first, until she curled her fingers into the coarse hair of his beard. He could feel her nails scrape gently against his skin. “Please, will you? <em> Will you?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Even as she spoke her mouth brushed against his, soft and warm, and yet the shock of lightning it sent down his spine was impossibly strong. </p><p> </p><p>And so Elliott kissed her, their mouths soft, then slick, against each other. His whole body felt like it was overheating and his heart was pounding through his chest as they kissed. She inhaled sharply through her nose and he nearly pulled back, but her hands tightened on him. She pulled his face closer instead of pushing away and he couldn’t deny her that, couldn’t deny her anything. His hands slid down her back, over the heavy knit of her jumper and he could feel the curves of her body underneath, the dip of her spine under his gentle touch. </p><p> </p><p>She kissed him back, tentative and then more confidently, a groan escaping her lips as the kiss turned from a soft brushing of lips to something hotter, more desperate. “Elliot,” she whispered against his mouth, a question nearly there, but she kissed him again before he could answer her.</p><p> </p><p>There was no precedent for Ivy Moxam, nothing like her kiss or the quiet <em> ah </em> as she drew a breath and then bit his lip and God, there was nothing like her in the <em> world </em>. Her hands slid back into his hair and she opened her mouth to him, slid her tongue against his tantalisingly slow, and it was like electricity rushing through his body at top speed. </p><p> </p><p>The clutch of her hand in the hair at the crown of his head shot heat down his spine and Christ, he was already hard, his cock heavy with arousal. The smell of her skin was so close and he wanted to bury his face in her neck and breathe it in, breathe <em> her </em>in, press kisses against her neck and make her shiver and her head fall back as she gasped. It would be so goddamn embarrassing if Ivy wasn’t already pulling him even closer, if she wasn’t pushing his head down in that direction, and he scraped the side of his jaw against her cheek and down the graceful curve of her neck. She shivered and pulled him closer, body pressing up against his. </p><p> </p><p>Her head did tilt back and she did gasp as he licked a hot stripe up the sensitive skin of her throat, just as he thought, and a thrill went through him at the knowledge.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you—do you want—?” Ivy began before her words were cut off by a whimper, her teeth catching at her bottom lip to keep the sound in.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he breathed against her skin, hardly knowing what he was saying, the world swimming around him in bright colors even in the dark of her bedroom, “I want.”</p><p> </p><p>And yeah, he wanted her, he <em> wanted </em> like nothing he had ever felt before, so much so he felt like he would burst into flames from the inside out, this wanting. Her skin was smooth and soft and she was kissing him, and he wanted to lay her down on the plush carpet of her bedroom, those long limbs spread and go down on her, seek out the warmth and slickness between her thighs with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers, until she was clutching him close between her knees and she was saying his name over and over again: <em> Elliott </em> . <em> Elliott. Elliott! </em></p><p> </p><p>Because he wanted her to remember it was him, wanted her to know it was him with her, and he didn’t want to take any more than she wanted to give and he wanted to give her everything she wanted, everything she had not yet had. </p><p> </p><p>He was dizzy with want, with the dreams that danced so close to him.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He forced himself to pull back, just enough to see her face. He tilted her face towards him with one gentle finger. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice low. “Tell me, Ivy, and I can do it.”</p><p> </p><p>She moaned softly and arched up against him, one leg thrown over his and she pulled herself against him, in those thin pajama bottoms, and he was just wearing his usual trousers and Christ she must be able to feel him perfectly, if the hitch in her breath was right. </p><p> </p><p>He knew that this was all wrong, that this was a million different types of fucked up. But he couldn’t find it within himself to stop. He would give Ivy whatever she asked for. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Elliott had watched hours of Ivy's interviews, over and over again. Those slow, painful hours where she struggled for answers, tears collecting in her bright hazel eyes or pouring over her pink cheeks. How rarely she had sobbed, her breath caught in her throat, a pained cry coming from her. Someone had taught her these things weren’t acceptable. No, she was always quiet. Sometimes the tears were impossible to see in the grainy recording until Ivy tilted her head just <em> so </em> and they caught the light, like stars spilling down her skin. </p><p> </p><p>When asked, he said he was hoping for clues, things they had missed the first time ‘round. But in truth the details were lost on him, sweeping past him as he listened to the lilt of Ivy's voice, watching her red-rimmed eyes and her hands tightening around each other on the table.</p><p> </p><p>The pain on her face, so obvious in her voice and her every gesture, broke his heart.</p><p> </p><p>But he couldn’t deny that—as he watched her fall apart—he fell in love.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Elliott's mobile woke him from the warmth of sleep. In the early morning, dreams trailed from him like his breath in cold air, silvery streams that dissipated into the sky and were impossible to grasp. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, wrapped in the warmth of sleep and the mugginess of dreams, he forgot. Last night fused with dreams, fantasy and reality worlds twined together in a way that was impossible to pick apart when he was still half-asleep. For a moment it was just him and a woman, her warmth spreading across his chest, her soft breath across his skin, the soft-sweet smell of her skin making him dizzy, sleepy. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment that was all he had. For a moment, that was all that mattered. He opened his eyes and saw Ivy lying in his arms, her eyelashes brushing across the top of her round cheeks with every breath she took. She looked so calm, he hated to move. It felt like the most complete sleep he had gotten since this disaster of a case had started. </p><p> </p><p>Then his gaze caught the vaulted ceiling, the floral duvet, the dormer window with its pale drapes—and he remembered. </p><p> </p><p>The remembering was like a slap across the face.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's kiss. Her breath against his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>Her twisting up to grab a condom she had stolen from her sister’s room, from her bedside drawer. Her hands clutching at his back as he had entered her slowly, ever-so-slowly. Her desperate gasps against his mouth. Her lips against his neck, her nails digging into his skin, her body arching up towards his. </p><p> </p><p>She wanted to forget everything. The desperation made it clear. And he wanted to forget, too. Sink into the feeling of it.</p><p> </p><p>The soft weight of her legs as she tightened them around his waist. The slickness of her cunt as they had moved together, his cock pumping into that slickness, how she had tightened around him, her fingers sliding between them, the <em> fucking </em> sound as he had fucked her, quiet but impossibly erotic and oh, God, they had sex last night, he couldn’t deny that, and yet he would have to, he needed to keep his distance— </p><p> </p><p>But it was already impossible. The memory of her kisses sliding hot and desperate across his cheek, her hands grasping his hair, clutching at the back of his neck as he had slid inside her, her neck thrown back, skin shining with sweat, that throat that he had kissed up, the rise of her jaw, her soft cheek, swallowing down her groan from her mouth to keep her quiet, oh they were still at her parent’s house, weren’t they—</p><p> </p><p>So fucked up, fuck, fuck, <em> fuck. </em>What the fuck had he done?</p><p> </p><p>Elliott slipped his arms from around Ivy and sat up. He was only in his boxer-briefs and shirt, and she only in her pants and flannel pajama top. Panic was swiftly rising to wrap like a choking vise around his neck. The room seemed to be closing in around him.</p><p> </p><p>On autopilot, he slid off the bed and grabbed his trousers and pulled them back on. He dug his phone from his blazer pocket. Several missed calls—from Lisa, the station, from the Chief Superintendent—popped up as he unlocked it. </p><p> </p><p><em> Shit. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Not only had he slept wi—<em> fucked </em> their victim, something had obviously happened last night. </p><p> </p><p>"Elliott?" Ivy murmured, sitting up. Her hair formed a messy halo around her head. Her hazel eyes were worried. "What's wrong?" </p><p> </p><p>He crossed back to the bed, hand tight around his phone. He sat gingerly on the other side of the double bed, close enough for Ivy to reach out and touch if she wanted, but not crowding her.</p><p> </p><p>"Hi," he said. Even looking at her made some of the unease loosen from around his throat. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy dropped her hand into her lap. A soft smile was still pressed into her pink lips. "Hi."</p><p> </p><p>"How are you feeling?" Elliott asked slowly. He tensed for the answer. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked almost shy, her shoulders curling inward, but her eyes didn't leave his. "Good." </p><p> </p><p>Elliott smiled. He knew he needed to be careful, but he couldn't help himself at the flood of relief. He wanted to kiss her, Christ help him. <em> "Good</em>." </p><p> </p><p>Ivy smiled, looking away for a moment. She scratched at the duvet with one long finger. She hadn't yet reached out for him. "What—"</p><p> </p><p>The phone began to vibrate with another call. Elliott put his finger to his lips. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy put her hand over her mouth, looking for all the world as if she had just gotten caught out by the teacher for talking during class. So innocent a mistake.</p><p> </p><p>The thought made a smile catch at the corners of Elliott's lips. A moment later, Ivy's eyes crinkled at the corners with an answering smile. His heart shouldn’t have leapt like it did, but he felt impossibly light just the same.</p><p> </p><p>"DI Carne speaking," Elliott said.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded as the constable spoke but really he was watching Ivy watch him. It made prickles rise across his skin. Ivy reached out and touched his hand, her warm fingers intertwining with his. Heat washed over his face. He felt like a teenager.</p><p> </p><p>He was hardly paying attention to the words until something struck him. </p><p> </p><p>"What?" He broke his gaze from her. "What did you say?"</p><p> </p><p>DC Cooper repeated himself. "Another girl has been taken, Detective Inspector. Around 7:30AM, on her way to school."</p><p> </p><p>It was as if the world had suddenly lost its pull of gravity on him. The strongest sense of vertigo reared up and made him feel like he was going to be sick. Ivy's eyes on him felt penetrating.</p><p> </p><p>He stood suddenly, unable to take her gaze. "Where did it happen?" </p><p> </p><p>"Around the corner from Stoke Park Primary School. Not far from Ivy's school.” DC Cooper paused. “It's the same man." </p><p> </p><p>Elliott could hear the sounds of the station in the background. It was too loud there, and far too silent here. Mark White had captured another girl while Elliott was sleeping with Ivy?</p><p> </p><p>"It's likely," he managed. </p><p> </p><p>"No, Detective Inspector. Eyewitnesses place Mark White at the scene. The car matches his description. The Chief Superintendent is asking how soon can you get here?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'll leave now. Maybe twenty minutes."</p><p> </p><p>"We're going to send a car to get Ivy. DS Merchant thinks she'll know something." </p><p> </p><p>"How could—? <em> Why?"</em> </p><p> </p><p>"Said she's the only one who could, since she’s been with him the last thirteen years. We need her here." </p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head, wondering at how the earth had shifted overnight. Everything was so much worse in the morning light. Everything seemed to have fallen apart. "I'm actually—I’m still here. At the Moxam house. I'll—" he swallowed down the lump in his throat, "—I'll bring her in." </p><p> </p><p>He had barely hung up the call before his hands started to shake. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What have we done? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The first interview, the morning after, was easy. Too easy. Ivy didn’t know anything, had never been anywhere with Mark White.</p><p> </p><p>The second, in the afternoon, was the same. Ivy couldn’t think of anywhere Mark White would’ve taken another girl, couldn’t name another area in Bristol or its outlying suburbs where he could’ve had a house.</p><p> </p><p>The third interview, however, the next day, was entirely different. Thanks to <em> Jesse </em>, they had the video this time of Ivy’s visit to the shopping centre, and Lisa—along with all the other detectives—wanted to make it mean something. Elliott couldn’t draw a line between not mentioning one outing to a shopping centre and being complicit in a kidnapping, but that didn’t stop the rest of them for immediately going for the worst possible scenario.</p><p> </p><p>"She's lying," Lisa said. </p><p> </p><p>They stood in the observation room attached to one of the interview rooms. On the other side of the two-way mirror sat Ivy, looking tired. She had wrapped the ends her jumper around her hands, her arms wrapped around her as if she were cold. She looked incredibly small in the bleak room.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head slowly. None of this added up. "I don't think she is."</p><p> </p><p>"Why would she lie about never having left the house, then? Why try to hide the trip to the shopping centre? She's been lying to us, Elliott. She's lying to you."</p><p> </p><p>"Still doesn't mean she'd work with him. You don’t know her, Lisa. She wouldn't help him."</p><p> </p><p>"She already has! Look at us, chasing our tails around because the little she <em> has </em> told us has turned out not to be true. She told us his mother was alive—turns out she’s been dead for years. Even his name wasn’t right. Leonard? Who’s that? She’s covering for him."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head, trying to figure out where Lisa was coming from. "How? How has she helped him? By helping us find his house, what he looks like—even, yes, his <em> name</em>. You think he wants that? He's been hiding her for <em> thirteen years </em>. That's thirteen years of him being careful every single day. Thirteen years of making sure she was hidden. Every. Single. Day."</p><p> </p><p>"And a man like that, who can <em> do </em> that for so long, will have a plan. He kept her for thirteen years, so why release her now?" </p><p> </p><p>Elliott wanted to scream, but he forced himself to retort calmly. "He didn't release her, she <em> got out. </em> She escaped—"</p><p> </p><p>"And how did she do that, hmm? How did she 'escape'? She's still never been able to explain that. She's never explained the clothes upstairs, her hair on his bed, this trip to the shopping centre where she was surrounded by people and said <em> nothing</em>, where she didn't try to alert anyone or escape, or anything." Sarcasm sharpened Lisa's voice. "Was the door just <em> magically </em> open on the one day she tried to leave?"</p><p> </p><p>Elliott bit down on his rising anger. "You know how hard it is for a victim to get out at all—not even considering her circumstances. She was a child when he took her. He was the only person she had spoken to in <em> years.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Lisa seemed unmoved. "So <em> why not </em> when he took her out? When he brought her into a busy shopping centre? She did nothing but follow him like a dog on a lead. That was the best chance she could ever hope to get, and she did absolutely nothing. Why didn’t she run off or say a word to anybody, unless there was something else going on between them?"</p><p> </p><p>This time, Elliott couldn’t hold back his anger. To blame the victim for being afraid of their captor grated at him in a way he couldn’t abide, no matter how it ‘looked.’ </p><p> </p><p>"She was bloody traumatised!” he burst out. “She had been held captive by him for nine years by that point, Lisa. Never leaving that house— you think she's not absolutely terrified the first time he takes her out in the world?”</p><p> </p><p>“And? For all she knew, that was the only time he would! Why not take that chance?”</p><p> </p><p>He knew that that’s what Lisa thought she would do if she were ever taken captive: take whatever chance she could. But it was easy to be brave in theory, so much harder to be that kind of reckless in reality. It was a chance that he could easily imagine Ivy wouldn’t have wanted to take. </p><p> </p><p>“He said he would take her, and he did. I can only imagine what he'd threaten her with if she disobeyed him, but of course she’s going to believe he will."</p><p> </p><p>Lisa dismissed his words with a shake of her head. "There's a reason we found her, Elliott, after thirteen years. There has to be a plan."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shoved his hands into his pockets, resisting the urge to gesticulate as he spoke. "No, there doesn't! It's not a bloody conspiracy or a kidnapping ring. It’s one man. You said it yourself. ‘He isn’t finished with Ivy yet.’ He could have taken another girl in all that time, but as far as we know, he didn't. He could have taken another girl at any point in the last thirteen years and been just as invisible. But he didn't. He never did, until now! Now, when his face is on the BBC Evening <em> fucking </em> News and everyone and their bloody mum is looking for him.” Elliott leaned in, trying to bite down on the sarcasm. “So, you want to know what's magically changed? You want to know why he's revealed himself, hmm? Ivy <em> escaped. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s expression remained flat. “And?”</p><p> </p><p>“And, he's panicking. He's trying to get us to back off and to get Ivy back. That’s his only concern right now—getting her back without being caught. You’re out here accusing her of colluding with him, when she's only ever made it easier for us to catch him."</p><p> </p><p>A muscle ticked in Lisa's jaw. She looked entirely unconvinced. "What about Phoebe?"</p><p> </p><p>"What about her?” Elliott could have laughed—a harsh, grating thing he felt scratching at his throat—but he didn’t. “What about Phoebe? He doesn't give a flying fuck about her! She could be any other girl on the street. He took her totally at random. <em> There’s </em> the goddamn difference. Don’t you see it? He worked at Ivy's school. He knew her, planned her capture. It was opportunistic with Phoebe. It's only pure luck he didn't get caught." </p><p> </p><p>"She's dangerous, Elliott. She's lying to us about <em> something </em>, I can feel it."</p><p> </p><p>"Your feeling isn't enough."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm going back to the crime scene tonight. I don’t care what she says now. There's something off about this. Her whole story. You know it doesn’t quite fit.” Lisa looked at him with an unflinching expression, before she paused for a moment, softening her tone just slightly. “When we’re done, are you going to come with me?"</p><p> </p><p>Elliott clenched his jaw so tightly he felt like his teeth were about to crack. This slight sympathy made him feel like he was being manipulated, rather than actually listened to. Lisa didn’t care that he thought Ivy was innocent. Lisa only wanted him to come with her to find proof Ivy was lying. </p><p> </p><p>"No," he ground out. </p><p> </p><p>Immediately, the softened look fell away. Lisa's tone was cutting as she spoke. "You're afraid of finding something, aren't you? Afraid to find something that will ruin that innocent little girl act she's got on that you like so much." </p><p> </p><p>Elliott's stomach roiled and he fought down a wave of nausea. He resisted the urge to rub a hand across his mouth. Less than 24 hours ago, he had kissed Ivy, had taken her to bed, and now this. The tender moments were being washed over and over again in blood and pain.  "No. I'm not going with you." </p><p> </p><p>Lisa shook her head. "You're being a shit detective, Elliott. Stop buying into her act and use your goddamn brain."</p><p> </p><p>It was true. In a way, it was true. He wasn't buying an act and he was using his brain, but he <em> was </em> being a shite detective. A good detective would go with her because he wanted all the facts, no matter how hard they might be to swallow. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott couldn’t do that, though, not tonight. Not so soon after.</p><p> </p><p>All he could say was this: "She's not his accomplice." </p><p> </p><p>Lisa looked at him, and her voice was sharp—dangerous—when she spoke. “Let’s ask her, then.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>“Can you confirm that the CCTV image shows you, walking unaccompanied by Mark, into the ladies toilets?” Lisa asked. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy nodded minutely. “Yes, but it was, um… I was…” </p><p> </p><p>The tone had changed. Elliott couldn’t even force himself to sit at the table, and instead leaned against the opposite wall, arms tense across his chest, watching.</p><p> </p><p> Lisa’s questions, from an interview the day before, echoed through the room. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Did you feel there was ever an occasion you could have attempted to flee?” </em>
</p><p>  </p><p>Ivy shrank back in her chair.</p><p> </p><p>The recorded Ivy responded. <em> “No. He was with me the whole time.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Lisa tilted her head, watching Ivy. Her eyes were cool. “Except he wasn’t.” She let the implication hang in the air for a long moment, before she turned to look at Elliott. “What’s the timestamp, DI Carne?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott knew she was baiting him. He knew it. “11:45,” he replied, masking his anger as much as possible. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa nodded, although she, of course, already knew the answer. “11:45…” she repeated softly. “<em> Six minutes </em> after you walk into the toilets alone, you emerge from the toilets. Alone. Six minutes is a long time, Ivy.” There was a chiding tone to her voice, a passive-aggressiveness that begged for someone to overreact. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy stared at her, the fragile confidence that had begun to bloom the past couple of days, now shuttering down. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa pointed at the recording, spliced-together CCTV recordings that showed Ivy walking through the shopping centre, switching angles whenever she disappeared from one camera’s range. “Why didn’t you run from here, a public space, when you could run from Mark’s house?”</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t. He was outside.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott closed his eyes. <em> No. </em>He knew that didn’t match the recording.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s voice lilted with slight, feigned surprise. “Outside? Where? Because he isn’t here. Instead, here you are, looking for Mark White.” </p><p> </p><p>Even in the grainy images, Elliott could see the fear and anxiety in Ivy’s posture, the way she looked like she was being hunted as she hurried through the crowded centre. Why weren’t they talking about that?</p><p> </p><p>Lisa picked up the remote and paused on the image of Ivy and Mark White, now sitting hand-in-hand on a bench. “And then you found him.” </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was staring at the video as if watching a horror film. “I…”</p><p> </p><p>“Even now, you know where he is, don't you, Ivy?’ Lisa asked, pushing the file spread in front of her on the interrogation table toward Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>It was a fake file, with no sensitive information in it, just in case she really was in contact with Mark White. But the photos were real enough. Elliott didn't even need to look to know what was there.</p><p> </p><p>Another young girl, aged ten, her bright smile frozen in a candid photo. Long brown hair held back in a high side ponytail, eyes bright in the flash of the camera. It was all over the news already. </p><p> </p><p>“No. No, no,” Ivy mumbled, drawing back from the photo as if she had seen a ghost. “I don't know… I don't…”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa shook her head, whatever sympathy had been there draining from her voice. “Ivy, we <em> know </em> already. We watched your entire trip to the shopping centre. How you never tried to talk to anyone, even when you had the perfect opportunity to make an escape. We know you didn't really want to leave him.” She paused for a long moment, just watching Ivy, before making her final jab. “You love him.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s gaze flashed up to Lisa for a moment, alarmed. The fear across her was sharp and hauntingly real. </p><p> </p><p>Then her eyes went to Elliott. He felt sick, because those same words from her interview with the psychologist had popped into his head when he had seen the footage for the first time. He didn't think it was true, but the words struck a painful chord in him just the same. </p><p> </p><p>“Elliott. <em> Please.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt his words freeze in his throat. He couldn’t move.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell us what happened,” Lisa cut across Ivy’s appeal. “You went back to him. It's clear you know him very well. Where is he now?”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy shook her head slowly, words faltering. “No… That’s not…”  </p><p> </p><p>Lisa tapped the girl’s photo, leaning over the table, and Ivy shrank back again. “We saw you go back to him, Ivy. There’s proof of it. Just tell us the truth. It'll be much worse if you lie to us now.”</p><p> </p><p>“'s not a lie. I just… I don't know." Ivy shook her head again, trying to compose herself. Her voice was fading with each word. "I promise, I don't know anything."</p><p> </p><p>"This isn't just about you anymore, though, Ivy. Is it?” The accusation was sharp in Lisa’s voice. “There's another girl missing. A child. We need to find her and bring her back to her family. You need to tell me where she is." Her voice became more insistent. "Where is he planning on taking her?"</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know!” Ivy’s eyes seemed drawn to the photograph of Phoebe, unable to look away. “Oh, God. No…"</p><p> </p><p>Lisa picked up on the hitch in Ivy's voice, the flash of vulnerability or what could be read as <em> culpability </em>. "Where did you plan on taking her?"</p><p> </p><p>What Elliott noted was that she said <em> you </em> as if she was sure Ivy and Mark White were conspiring together. As if her entire premise weren’t built on a supposition of nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>"Nowhere! I didn't know he would…” Ivy closed her eyes, her voice fading to whisper. “There’s no plan. No, nothing."</p><p> </p><p>Lisa had smelled blood in the water and was going straight to it. "He's going to do the same that he did to you, isn't he?” she asked—no, <em> accused. </em> “But it's a little different this time. You're helping, aren't you, to get him another girl?"</p><p> </p><p>"No! No, I'm not! I wouldn't!" Ivy was beginning to lose the tenuous control she had, was just repeating herself without hearing anything Lisa was saying. "I wouldn't—I wouldn't… no, I wouldn’t…"</p><p> </p><p>“But you know, don’t you? You knew he planned this.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy barely paid any attention to the words, just continued to mutter, “I wouldn’t… no, I wouldn’t… never.” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott shifted forward. "That's enough, Detective." </p><p> </p><p>Lisa ignored him. "Ivy, if you continue to lie, you will <em> go to prison </em> for helping him, is that clear? If you helped him at all in her capture, we will charge you to the fullest extent of the law. If you helped him at all in the capture of another minor—"</p><p> </p><p>Ivy's voice broke this time, her expression collapsing under true misery. "I'm not helping him! I wouldn’t!”</p><p> </p><p>"Don't <em> lie!" </em> Lisa barked back, clearly sensing that Ivy was teetering close to the edge of her self-control.  </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not lying!” Ivy cried, voice getting more and more ragged. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott stepped up next to Lisa, his voice sharper now. "Detective!"</p><p> </p><p>Intent on a goal, Lisa ignored him. She rose slowly from her chair and leaned in close, eyes zeroed in on Ivy.</p><p> </p><p>Her voice was low and hard as iron as she spoke. "How could you help him do this to another girl? What kind of person would help <em> kidnap a child?</em>” Something twisted in her tone, a disgust that Elliott didn't think was feigned. “Did he really break you beyond repair? What did he <em> do </em> to you that would make you like this—?"</p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s gut twisted at the words he recognised from his and Lisa’s earlier conversation. <em> She’s broken, probably beyond repair… </em> Lisa had said. He hadn’t known she intended to use it to wrench a confession from her. </p><p> </p><p>Tears spilled heedlessly down Ivy’s cheeks. “No…” she mumbled, though it wasn’t even clear what question she was responding to.</p><p> </p><p>“Ivy! Tell us where Phoebe is.”</p><p> </p><p>A sound rose from Ivy's throat—not a word, but a sound like she was being choked. Her breath cut off. Elliott couldn’t stand it anymore.</p><p> </p><p>"Lisa, that is enough!" Elliott grabbed Lisa's arm and yanked her back, anger flooding his vision with <em> red.</em> </p><p> </p><p>Ivy heaved in a breath and began to sob, silently. The most heartbreaking part of this display of emotion was how quiet it was. Her quick gulps of air were audible in the tiny room, but she made no other sound. Tears streamed down her face, wet her lashes, dripped onto the table. She didn't seem to notice. If Elliott had been a few metres further away, or been facing the other way—he wouldn’t have even heard her. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa wrenched herself free from Elliott's grip with a disgusted look. "What is <em> wrong </em> with you?" This, unlike the previous questions, was directed at Elliott.</p><p> </p><p>"Get out," Elliott commanded. His temper seethed and roiled as he struggled to bring it under control. It was the first time he felt close to coming to a fistfight with a colleague. </p><p> </p><p>Never had there been the need to step in the middle of an interview, because that was clearly not what this was: it was an interrogation. To that end, never had he even followed the urge to protect a suspect from a fellow detective. And Ivy wasn’t—couldn’t be—a suspect. She wasn’t an accomplice.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa was staring at him, gaze hard. She hadn't moved, standing so close to him their clothes almost brushed. He wondered what she saw when she looked up at him.</p><p> </p><p>Her chin tilted up slightly.</p><p> </p><p>Before this, before everything with Ivy, it had almost seemed like he and Lisa had been careening towards some ill-fated relationship. Their emotions had run high since the first day of their partnership, and collided often in what would’ve looked like a shower of sparks if it were tangible. </p><p> </p><p>The reality was they would have been terrible together—they had no <em> give </em> when it came to the other, no softness. No vulnerability. They pushed and <em> pushed </em> and for the longest time Elliott mistook that strain for tension, attraction. But the frustration he felt now had no underlying desire to it, only anger.</p><p> </p><p>His heart was beating high in his throat, his skin flush with anger and a crawling sense of <em> wrongness. </em> He couldn't pinpoint the source of it. </p><p> </p><p>"Get out. Now." Elliott pointed at the door.</p><p> </p><p>For a long moment, Lisa watched him. And there was some subtle tic in her features that made Elliott sure she had understood something. Something he didn't want her to understand.</p><p> </p><p>"You're a fucking idiot,” she bit out. </p><p> </p><p>She was speaking so lowly it would be difficult for the microphones to pick up her words. She leaned closer to him, blocking her lips from view by the cameras, the one-way mirror behind which their colleagues sat, and Ivy. Her eyes narrowed, as if she could smell something on Elliott’s clothes. </p><p> </p><p>"Keep at it, <em> Elliott,</em>” she grit out through her teeth, putting such an emphasis on his name he knew something was deeply wrong, “and you're going to ruin <em> both </em> of your fucking lives." </p><p> </p><p>She pulled back.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott pretended he didn’t hear her. He kept his hand pointing at the door. “<em>Out. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>With a final, disgusted look at the both of them, Lisa left, slamming the door of the interview room behind her.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott ran a hand through his hair, trying to brush off the feeling but it stubbornly remained. He knew Ivy wasn’t guilty of anything. She wouldn't have done it anyway, she wouldn't help Mark White, she wouldn't hurt another girl like that. </p><p> </p><p>But the idea was enough. Lisa <em> knew </em> it would be enough. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That innocent little girl act she’s got on that you like so much.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ivy lifted her tear-stained face to his and instead of that feverish love, he felt ill. This was all wrong. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn't look at her. </p><p> </p><p>"Elliott, I didn't. You know I didn't," Ivy whispered, hands reaching across the table for him. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott slid a hand across his mouth, unable to respond. He was acutely aware of the camera still rolling in the corner, and the very real possibility of colleagues behind the mirrored glass at his back. His whole exchange with Lisa was on tape, would be discussed and picked apart and <em> fuck </em>, he had absolutely fucked up.</p><p> </p><p>He was moments away from the shite absolutely hitting the fan, and he swore he could still taste Ivy on his lips. It seemed as if his hands still held the heady scent of her, and here they were, with everyone in the station suddenly certain that everything Ivy had said—everything she had done—was a lie, a manipulation. The sudden switch made him dizzy, lost. </p><p> </p><p>He was going to be fired. He was going to be shunned and disgraced and Ivy's voice still echoed through the room, saying his name. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott turned and sat in the chair opposite Ivy, all the while attempting to keep his expression from being read from behind the glass. He didn't reach out for her, but he leaned his body towards her, arms crossed. The part of him that wanted to wipe her tears away with a swipe of his thumbs fought with the side trying to keep his head on straight. </p><p> </p><p>There was only one way to play this, and that was as if it were all an act put on for Ivy so she'd trust Elliott. Lisa, the bad cop, pushing and pushing for an answer, and Elliott stepping in like a knight in shining armour. </p><p> </p><p>The only person who would know it wasn't real would be Lisa. Though he could hardly count on her mercy to protect him, he’d have to hope it would be enough.</p><p> </p><p>"Ivy, you know Mark White,” Elliott said. “You know what he might be thinking. You know what he's capable of. Is there anything you can think of that will help us find Phoebe?" </p><p> </p><p>Ivy's expression crumpled. "I didn't do anything. I'm not helping him." </p><p> </p><p>"I know," Elliott said, a touch too emphatically. He turned his tone a little more distant. "Do you remember anything at all about if he had another house? Did he ever talk about meeting up with someone else? Any family, friends?"</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know. I don't remember. Please believe me, Elliott," Ivy pleaded, reaching across the table. "You have to believe me, I didn't do anything. I wouldn't."</p><p> </p><p>"I know you wouldn't." Even though it was surely foolish of him, Elliott reached out and gripped her hand. He told himself it was because he had to be the good cop, here. Not because Ivy looked moments away from falling apart, or her hand was hot and trembling in his. It was just to reassure her. "Ivy. You're the only one who might be able to help us. Any ideas you have, anything at all, mentions of another place, anyone he knew, tell me. It'll help us. We're asking you to help us. You're the only one who can."</p><p> </p><p>"I'll go to prison," Ivy whispered, voice despairing. It was if she were slipping away, even as she sat there. "I didn't help him but you're going to lock me up anyway." </p><p> </p><p>He squeezed her hand, trying to bring her back to the present. "No, Ivy. No, you're not going to get in trouble. I won’t let that happen, I promise. We just need your help. To find Phoebe. Help <em> us."  </em></p><p> </p><p>But the ‘us’ he meant was not the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. It wasn’t the police or the detective bureau or anyone else. It was him, and it was her. It was the two of them.</p><p> </p><p><em> Help us, </em> he said. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Help me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Elliott drove and drove and drove. He felt like he was driving blind, no idea where he was or what he was doing. The morning sun rose steadily in the East, washing away the blue-grey of the dawn in a flood of soft yellow and orange as he raced through the streets. His whole body felt numb. His vision blurred. </p><p> </p><p>All he could see was Maggie's body. On the floor. Still as death. Surrounded by a bloom of red-black blood.</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts had faded away to nothing, complete silence. It wasn't his first dead body by far, nor even the first of someone he knew, but it was the first he had felt in some way culpable for. The guilt had choked him: he felt like he had been the one to grab the blunt object and kill her. </p><p> </p><p>Only when he pulled to a stop at a red light did he realise his mobile was ringing again. He nearly ignored it, because he knew what the call would be.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dead body. 20-25 years old. Female. Brown hair, between 155cm to 165cm, slight build. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, likely cause of death. Self-defense markings on arms and neck. Found prone in the sitting room of 14 Cavalier Street…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And the description of the man he had heard this morning, the one that had made him realise that something was wrong. The description that matched that of Maggie’s husband. The man on the bridge. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Suspect at large… covered in blood… last seen going over the southern railing of the Clifton Suspension Bridge…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The murderer. But that wasn’t entirely right. Because it wasn’t just him. It was Elliott, too. He was the reason Maggie was dead. </p><p> </p><p>He picked up the call. “DC Carne.”</p><p> </p><p>“Carne?” It was DI Miller’s voice. “We need you at the station.”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s happened?” he asked tonelessly.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to track down the man who went into the river. He was covered in blood, and there’s eyewitness reports of him talking to himself about beating a woman—or perhaps killing someone. We need an ID and an address. We need to know if there’s a victim out there.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt himself respond, though he could hardly speak. “Is he alive?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not sure yet, but it’s unlikely. Search and recovery hasn’t been able to locate the body yet.” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott's tongue felt numb as he responded. <em> The body. </em> “Understood. Coming in now.”</p><p> </p><p>It took them nearly twenty-four hours to find Maggie. Twenty-four hours where Elliott kept the secret of her death locked down, silent, deep inside. As they pulled the body of her husband from the river—crushed windpipe and ribs, along with a spinal column break above the third vertebrae, so even if he hadn’t been killed on impact he would have drowned immediately. As they searched his body and found no wallet but a sickeningly familiar mobile phone—cracked screen and missing the battery, waterlogged beyond comprehension. As they ran the artist’s rendition of his shattered face through missing persons, wondering if they might get a hit.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>There wasn’t a good match in the missing persons report. Though they hoped to get an ID from the SIM card, Cyber reported it was missing. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t want to admit it to himself, but a sickening sense of relief had spread through him at that discovery. If the police figured out that he had been contacting Maggie, they would want to know what he knew, what he had done—which was nothing. </p><p> </p><p>In this case, it wouldn't be a relief to know he had done nothing, wrong or other. Instead, it felt like an indictment. Proof that he was guilty of failing to protect someone who had been in dire need of his protection.</p><p> </p><p>Finally the police found the lorry that Maggie’s husband drove, parked half up the kerb in one of the neighbourhoods that abutted the Clifton Suspension Bridge. There was blood on the door handle and the steering wheel, and a driver’s registration that listed a familiar address. </p><p> </p><p>Sickening relief spread through Elliott at that, too. For twenty-four hours, there had been no call to the police about the half-open door in front of Maggie’s house, no call about her missing. Now, for better or worse, Maggie would be found.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The door to the officer’s carpark screeched open and quick footsteps followed him across the pavement. Even without looking back, he knew it was Lisa.  He kept up his brisk pace toward his car, not wanting to have this conversation. He wouldn’t go with her to the crime scene again. Not tonight. Especially not, after <em> that </em> display.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy had been released and sent home—not because she had cleared the other detectives’ suspicions, mind you, but because they hadn’t been able to get anything else from her. Even when Elliott had asked as gently as he could. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa caught up to him right as he got to the drivers-side door of his car.</p><p> </p><p>“To a casual observer, I’d say that you’re taking this Ivy business a mite too personally. Wouldn’t you?” Her voice was light, almost cajoling, as if they hadn’t nearly gotten into a fight in front of the person in question. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott turned to give her an annoyed look. “Fuck off.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa feigned shock, as if he hadn’t just thrown her from the interview room less than three hours prior. “I’ll take that as an admission, then.”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, a grim smile on his face. She knew how to wind him up, that was for sure. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa continued. “Here was me, feeling sorry for you, worrying that <em> she </em> was getting too attached—when, look at you!”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, right. She felt <em> so </em>sorry for him. Good for her. Saved all her sympathy for him, did she, when there were people out there who actually needed it? This knowing, though, went both ways. Elliott, too, knew how to wind her up. He knew how to be cruel. “Careful, you’re sounding jealous.”</p><p> </p><p>That made Lisa blink, actually surprised this time. “Of her?” </p><p> </p><p>She recovered quickly, and scoffed. “You’re going down a stupid path, even with <em> your </em> track record. She’s lying to us, making a fool of you. So much of what she says doesn’t add up.” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott just shook his head, not looking at Lisa. If he looked at her, he thought he might fight her. His ‘track record.’ </p><p> </p><p>A face flashed across his memory accompanied, as ever, with that cold, bone-deep guilt. <em> Maggie. </em></p><p> </p><p>She knew nothing of his track record, not really. His track record was not listening to his gut when it told him something was wrong, not fighting for it, and disaster following. He was trying as hard as he could to make sure that this wasn’t a repeat of the same mistakes.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa continued. “There’s a little girl out there, terrified—”</p><p> </p><p><em> That </em> made him open his mouth and laugh. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa grit her teeth, glaring at him. </p><p> </p><p>So, that’s the way it was? She was the saint and he, the depraved asshole, hardly one step above a kidnapper, was he? Just because he didn’t want to hurt an already-traumatised woman, when it was so clear Ivy knew nothing more?</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t pretend this is about finding Phoebe,” Elliott said. “Remember, I <em> know </em> you, Lisa. This is about <em> you. </em> It always is.” He felt that petty cruelty rise to the surface, sharpen its knife on his next words. It was a small rebuke for how she had thrown him under the bus in front of Ivy earlier. “You’ve sniffed out a chance at being DI, and you’re going for it, snarling jawsand all. I’ll tell you something, it’s not an attractive look. Now, take your hands <em> off my car.</em>” </p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s hands lifted off his car, but instead of moving away, she grasped his lapels and tried to pull him close. Her eyes went to his mouth. </p><p> </p><p><em> No, </em> he thought. <em> No, you fucking don’t. </em></p><p> </p><p>He grabbed her wrists to stop her from pulling him any closer. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s eyes flashed. </p><p> </p><p>“This is about Phoebe, Elliott. It really is. This is about finding a <em> child </em> who has been stolen from her parents. Who’s scared—” she spoke low and fast, urgently, “and in the hands of a predator—”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. <em> That’s </em>what you’re concerned about: finding the victim,” he said slowly, let sarcasm bleed into his tone. He fixed her with a sharp look. “And instead of now, say we find her in thirteen years, Lisa. Are you going to ask Phoebe if she wanted to go along with him? Are you going to ask her, ‘why didn’t you run?’” </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes went wide at the reference to her words to Ivy. “What—?”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to blame her for her own kidnapping, too? Because if that’s what you think it means, caring about victims, they’d be better off you leaving them alone.” Now he was really angry. “I’ll not say it again. Take your hands <em> off—” </em></p><p> </p><p>Elliott pushed her hands away from his lapels and stepped back. Lisa stumbled as she tried to keep hold. The tweed of his blazer twisted, but then he was free, space growing between them. His mouth tasted bitter. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa was staring at him like she hardly knew him. He was sure his expression wasn’t much different. Normally he respected her drive, her ambition, her ability to keep above getting emotionally involved in a case that Elliott found so difficult—but not this time. Not like this. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re taking this too personally,” Lisa said, her voice flat. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Elliott bit out. He hit the unlock on his keys and wrenched the car door open. “Better to care too much than too little.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>He had just gotten home when he got the call. It was the station, and his jaw clenched in frustration. They were probably going to ask him to turn in his badge or something else. With a grimace, he picked up the call. “DI Carne.”</p><p> </p><p>“DI Carne, you’re needed at the Moxam residence,” the dispatcher said. Her tone, as she had been trained to do, was calm and polite. Elliott’s pulse jumped just the same. “There’s been an incident.”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” he asked, getting up from where he sat at the edge of his bed which he hadn’t slept in for <em> days </em>, it felt like, but he didn’t feel tired anymore. He hurried toward the door, grabbing his keys and bag. “What’s the situation?”</p><p> </p><p>“Attempted kidnapping of Ivy Moxam,” the dispatcher replied. In an instant, Elliott’s heart felt like it fell through his stomach, and he had to stop, brace himself on the entryway wall. <em> Breathe. </em> She had said ‘attempted,’ which meant… “The suspect is in custody.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott barely managed to make the words come out. If it was Mark White—but no, he wouldn’t make it that easy. “Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“Robert Tarl, father of Phoebe Tarl. Suspect grabbed Ivy Moxam as she approached the front door of her residence and attempted to pull her down the street. A family member saw the altercation and came to her rescue.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott held the phone away from him and cursed, wishing he could do something, punch something. Where was Alia, the family liaison? Where were the <em> officers </em> that were supposed to be at the <em> bloody fucking door? </em> Were they really that incompetent? That disorganised? </p><p> </p><p>He put the phone back to his ear and asked in a clipped tone, “Was Ivy—was she hurt? And where were the officers assigned to that detail?”</p><p> </p><p>The dispatcher was quiet for a moment. Her response was softer. “Order came in earlier tonight to pull officers from the Moxam residence detail. That’s why there were no cars present at the time. The family liaison officer was there to drop Ivy off, but she was still in the driver’s seat when the altercation happened. No injuries have been reported.”</p><p> </p><p>Though he should have felt some relief at that, the rage Elliott felt instead crawled like a hot, living thing under his skin. </p><p> </p><p>They had allowed Ivy to go home only on the condition that they <em> promised </em> to watch over her. They hadn’t made her to go to a safe house—like they should have—because Burridge had decided it was better to leave her as bait. And now they just left her? They threw her right in the path of the wolf they were supposedly trying to catch, and then they looked away?</p><p> </p><p>This wasn’t just incompetence on the part of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, and all those involved. This was malfeasance. </p><p> </p><p>Someone had done this deliberately. Ivy had <em> knowingly </em> been put at risk. </p><p> </p><p>He and Lisa were supposed to be guiding this investigation, but it was absolutely clear that was no longer the case. Not if a decision as big as this had been made without his knowledge. </p><p> </p><p>“Who gave the order?” Elliott asked, trying to keep his tone as calm as possible. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure, sir. It came through the usual channels,” the dispatcher said. There was a momentary pause. “But I believe it was on the recommendation of DS Merchant.” </p><p> </p><p>Abruptly, Elliott felt choked with something—he wasn’t sure if it was rage or grief or helplessness—but for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes, feeling them burn with frustrated tears. Only his hand on the entryway wall kept him upright. </p><p> </p><p>It was one thing to disbelieve what Ivy had told them, or even to suspect her. But to decide to leave her unprotected while her kidnapper was very much still out there, and <em> looking for her </em> , as made so obvious by his <em> message </em> with Phoebe Tarl today, spoke to something much greater going on. Something far worse. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Constable,” Elliott said, voice unexpectedly raw. “I appreciate your candor.”</p><p> </p><p>The silence on the other end seemed surprised, almost. “You’re welcome, DI Carne.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please, let me know any updates, if you can.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will. And my name is DC Laura Pelham, if you need me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, DC Pelham.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott hung up. </p><p> </p><p>It took him longer than he wanted to be able to move, but finally he was able to clear his head enough to leave his flat and drive to the Moxam residence. </p><p> </p><p>He was glad he had made the time to calm down, because the scene was chaos. Multiple police cars now blocked the road, some with their lights still flashing. Uniformed officers crowded the road and lined the sidewalk. </p><p> </p><p>He stopped the car in the middle of the road and jogged up to the Moxam house. Unlike yesterday, all the windows were ablaze with lights. No one was going to sleep tonight. </p><p> </p><p>As he passed by one of the squad cars, he caught sight of a familiar face inside: Robert Tarl. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t stop. What would be the point?</p><p> </p><p>Ivy and her family were still standing outside when Elliott made it up to the front steps. Most of them watched him approach with something like distrust, or outright anger, like Christina and Angus. He couldn’t blame them, no matter his innocence this time </p><p> </p><p>Ivy, however, was looking at him with wide eyes. He ached to run up there and embrace her, tell her she was safe, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>Christina dropped the arm she had wrapped around Ivy’s shoulders and stomped down the steps towards him. She was a tall woman, nearly of a height with him, but with her eyes ablaze with anger and her posture as straight as an arrow, she commanded a lot more space than one might have expected. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott stopped at the bottom of the steps, Christina right in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>“Where were you?” she demanded, voice hard. She took a sharp breath in before continuing. “Where were you when my daughter was almost <em> kidnapped </em> in front of her home? You said you would keep her safe! You promised!” </p><p> </p><p>“I apologise, Mrs Moxam. Really, I—”</p><p> </p><p>“No! No, don’t you even—where were the officers who were supposed to be watching over her? There was no one here. No one but us! You left her absolutely unprotected! She could have been—she could have—” Christina’s voice cut off there, trembling. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Elliott said, trying as hard as he could to convey his sympathy to her. “I wasn’t informed that the security detail was to be lifted from Ivy. But I assure you—”</p><p> </p><p>“The security detail was <em> what? </em> What did you say?” Christina’s eyes went wide. Behind her, he could see Ivy’s sister Emma and her father Angus snap their heads toward him. So, no one had told them. Brilliant.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott took a deep breath. “I’ve been informed the security detail was pulled from your daughter earlier today.” </p><p> </p><p>From behind, he heard familiar footsteps coming up. He turned to see Lisa striding up the brick path. Something resolved within himself. He might regret this, but he couldn’t help it. The Moxam family deserved to know the truth, and if he couldn’t demand it, they could. </p><p> </p><p>“DS Merchant will be able to explain more,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>Coming to a stop beside Elliott, Lisa looked over at him sharply. “Explain?” she repeated.</p><p> </p><p>Christina swiveled to look at her. “You pulled the security detail from our daughter? I’m to understand <em> you </em> allowed this to happen? Where were the officers you promised us to be here? Where were the people you said would be here protecting her?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s jaw set. “Mrs Moxam…” she started, voice conciliatory, before she was brought up short.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you dare,” Christina cut her off. “Don’t you <em> dare </em> try to talk to me in that tone. My daughter was almost kidnapped <em> again </em> because you decided she didn’t need protecting. How could you let this happen?”</p><p> </p><p>Angus joined his estranged wife on the stone walk. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leveled the most intimidating stare he could at Lisa. “Tell us what happened. Now.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked past them, up at Ivy and Emma, who stood next to each other on the porch. Slowly, he walked up the stairs. Emma shied back a little, looking worried, but Ivy inched forward as he stepped on the porch.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad you’re alright, Ivy,” he said quietly, but emphatically. He looked at Emma. His throat felt impossibly tight. His words came out gruff. “And thank you for keeping her safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Emma still looked defensive. “Someone had to,” she replied, anger making her words sharp. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott nodded. He couldn’t disagree. He put one hand out and touched Ivy lightly on the shoulder, and she stepped a little closer. “D’you want to go inside?” he asked, as he motioned to the open door. “We can talk about what happened there.”</p><p> </p><p>Emma stared at them both for a beat too long before she looked at Ivy, who nodded quickly. It seemed that was the only encouragement she needed. Emma kept her arm around Ivy’s shoulder as they walked inside. They arranged themselves next to each other on the couch, while Elliott found a spot on one of the overstuffed armchairs.</p><p> </p><p>“As I said, I wasn’t informed that the security detail was to be pulled from your house tonight,” he said, looking at the both of them. Ivy nodded, although Emma looked less convinced. “And I assure you, after tonight’s incident, it <em> will </em> be put back.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought it was supposed to be better than before, after Ivy…” Emma started, her eyes flickering to her sister, “...got out.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy hunched down a little. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, it was. We’re going to make sure what happened tonight doesn’t happen again. Ever again.” Elliott cleared his throat. “Ivy, can you describe what happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Ivy spoke.</p><p> </p><p>She was already halfway through her description of Robert Tarl’s attempted abduction by the time her parents and Lisa came back into the living room. Both of the parents looked flushed and upset, and even Lisa looked a little discomfited, although not by much. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as she saw Lisa, though, Ivy clammed up. For a moment there was an awkward silence. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to apologise, Ivy, for what happened tonight,” Lisa said. It took her a moment before she continued. “And I will admit that it was my call—and our Chief Superintendent’s—to pull the security detail from your house, as we believed you were no longer in immediate danger.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott bit his tongue, though he couldn’t quite mask his disbelief. Right, he was <em> sure </em> that it was because they thought she wasn’t in immediate danger. If tonight hadn’t happened, they’d probably have left her without protection until Mark White himself decided to come steal her away again. </p><p> </p><p>“Obviously, that’s no longer true. We will be reinstating the detail, round-the-clock, until it is determined that the danger posed to you and your family is no longer present. We will also inform you before the detail is to be pulled from your house, so you may arrange other security measures, if necessary.” Lisa shot a look at Ivy’s parents, and it was clear that this was an agreement they had worked out between them. “We would also like to let you know that we will recommend that Robert Tarl be charged for his attempted abduction, and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy flinched at the words, which not four hours ago had been directed towards her, in a threat that <em> she </em> would be charged to the fullest extent of the law. Slowly, she shook her head. “No.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?” Christina said, surprised. “Ivy, he should be punished for what he did to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy shook her head again, looking at her mother. There was a sadness in her eyes, a deep understanding that Elliott could barely fathom. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t. He’s already… he’s already being punished,” she said quietly. It was clear she was referring to Phoebe. </p><p> </p><p>Everyone fell silent. Even Lisa looked taken aback.</p><p> </p><p>Emma tightened her arm around her sister and pulled her close. Ivy let herself be pulled in, though she didn’t return the embrace. Her thoughts seemed elsewhere. </p><p> </p><p>It made Elliott’s heart hurt as the depths of Ivy’s compassion became clear. Even now, after she had nearly been kidnapped again, her thoughts were all on Phoebe, and Phoebe’s family. For all the other detectives accused Ivy of not caring about Phoebe, or colluding with her kidnapper to grab another girl, it was agonisingly clear that was not the case. </p><p> </p><p>“If you don’t want him to be charged, Ivy…” Elliott started. He swallowed. There were some promises he could make, but the decision to charge the man with attempted abduction wasn’t just on him, or even the other officers. It went far above them, to the Crown Prosecution Service. “We’ll let the prosecutors know that you don’t want that, but it’ll be up to them, in the end. Just know… just know, we’ll do what we can.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy nodded minutely. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As he and Lisa walked out to their cars amongst the flashing lights, he said, “At least this mess did good on one point.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa laughed, though the sound was bitter. “What? You mean completely destroying our trust with the Moxams?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott stopped. <em> “You </em> did that,” he said. “All on your own. No need of any help from me.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa swivelled around to face him. Anger made her brows sharp as they pulled down over her eyes. “So it’s just okay, then? What you did, throwing me under the bus like that?”</p><p> </p><p>“You mean telling them the truth?” Elliott shot back. “ Yeah, I’d say that’s alright. You’d rather I lie, and have none of them trust us?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, so this is just about keeping your trust with them. I see.” Lisa shrugged. “Nothing to do with you. Personally.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is about <em> keeping Ivy safe, </em> first off—which should have been the point this whole time.” Elliott’s temper flared and he stepped up to her. “And yes, it’s also about keeping the trust <em> I </em> built with them. Or d’you forget already? It was your decision to pull the detail. Not mine. <em> You </em> fucked up.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa didn’t back down. “I know. And I took responsibility for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good on you,” he bit out. He respected that much of her conduct tonight, at least.</p><p> </p><p>“But that doesn’t mean I trust her, Elliott,” Lisa said. She took a step back. “She’s still lied to us. There’s more she’s not telling us. There’s something off about her. Something that doesn’t sit quite right.”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s the <em> victim </em> in all this,” Elliott replied. He felt like laughing at the sheer, unfathomable bullheadedness of it all. Ivy had nearly gotten kidnapped again, which was the second time in less than two weeks. What else did would it take to establish her innocence? “Did this not make you realise that?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa shook her head, just slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s not a criminal mastermind. Never has been! She’s not trying to fool us, Lisa. This isn’t some big plot. This is a girl who’s scared, and in danger, and we’re supposed to protect her right now, not suspect her. A victim! She’s <em> innocent,” </em> Elliott insisted. Exhaustion and frustration battled it out within him, and he felt so tired and overwhelmed, trying to fight this fight alone. “When is enough going to be <em> enough </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>“When we find Phoebe,” Lisa said gravely. “When she stops lying to us and we find Phoebe, and <em> that </em> girl gets to go home again.”</p><p> </p><p>It was an ungenerous answer, and she knew it. There was nothing Elliott could say to that. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next day, it became clear that Ivy had told a lie—had omitted something important. Because it turned out that Mark White had a brother—one that Ivy had never mentioned. </p><p> </p><p>When they confirmed the report, Elliott prayed to a God that he hadn’t prayed to for twenty years that Ivy didn’t know anything about Dylan Hawthorne. That she had never heard anything about a half-brother of Mark White’s that had disappeared off the map in the last ten years, during the period of her disappearance. That she hadn’t been withholding this crucial bit of information from them.</p><p> </p><p>If it was true… no. <em> No. </em></p><p> </p><p>Elliott went to her, alone. Thought it was safest to approach her at home, not at the station. His heart felt like it was beating in his throat when he followed her inside the small study that had been blocked off for their at-home interviews. More than anything, he wanted to hold her—perhaps more for his comfort than hers. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as they stepped inside the room, he murmured her name, stepping toward her. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy tilted her head. But instead of coming closer to him, she crossed her arms and looked up at the opposite corner of the study, deliberately. </p><p> </p><p>Following her gaze, he felt his blood run cold. A security camera, set up in the corner of the study. The hand he had lifted to put on her shoulder dropped down to his side. </p><p> </p><p>She turned to him, putting her back to the camera. “Not here,” she whispered, so quiet even he could barely hear her. “My parents, they don’t trust the police anymore. D’you trust me?” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded shortly.</p><p> </p><p>A small smile quirked at the corner of her lips.</p><p> </p><p>They took their usual seats, he on one half of the uncomfortable couch and she perched opposite on an old armchair, one knee pulled up to her chest. </p><p> </p><p>He asked her about Dylan Hawthorne, but all she said was that she had never heard the name. Instead of answering, she pushed back, sharper than she ever had before. “How would you feel, being asked question after question?” she finally asked, seemingly fed up. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott paused. “I probably wouldn't like it. But I’d do it, if I needed to.” </p><p> </p><p>Ivy seemed to consider this. “Easy to say.”</p><p> </p><p>Again, there was nothing he could say to that but, “Fine.” It was so close to what he had thought of Lisa’s line of questioning, when all they seemed to be focussing on was what Ivy <em> didn’t </em> do, what chances she <em> didn’t </em> take. He wasn’t quite sure where she wanted to go with this, but he was willing to put himself up for inspection, if that’s what she needed. “Alright, Ivy. Ask away.”</p><p> </p><p>Her first question was quick, one that he was sure she had been holding onto for a while. “Why did you become a policeman?” </p><p> </p><p>“To help people,” he replied.</p><p> </p><p>She nodded, though it was less in agreement and more in acknowledgment that he had answered. It was clear that his answer wouldn’t be enough. She shifted forward, intent. <em> “Why </em> did you become a policeman?”</p><p> </p><p>He struggled for a moment to come up with a different answer, rather than the one he trotted out at parties and shared with victims when they asked for reassurance. “I guess… I needed a firm hand.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy tilted her head but didn’t comment. “Where’s your home?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott thought of his small flat, a first floor walk-up, with its cramped kitchen and wonky bath. The best parts of it were the bedroom, which was always warm and cozy, and the living room, with its large, south-facing bay window. The windows let in much-needed light in the winter, even when the sky was overcast. The window seat looked out over a small park with big oak trees lining the edges, where there were always pensioners going for walks or children running through the grass, kicking a football or screaming as they played tag.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered if Ivy would like it. Strangely, he could imagine her there, curled up on the window seat with a cup of tea, morning light pouring over her shoulders. <em> Safe </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Bedminster,” he said.</p><p> </p><p>“Not with that accent.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fair enough.” Elliott tried and failed to fight down a laugh. His Scottish accent did have a tendency to give him away, even if Bedminster <em> was </em> his home in a way that his hometown never had been. “I was born in Glasgow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your family still there?”</p><p> </p><p>The mention of <em> family </em> sent a sharp stab through him, and he paused. Family? No, he wouldn’t call it that, exactly. Not the scattered remnants of distant cousins and an aunt twice-removed that still lived in the area. Those that he still considered relations.</p><p> </p><p>“You said, ‘Ask away,’” Ivy reminded him.</p><p> </p><p>He nodded. So he had. Finally, he admitted, “My dad is.”</p><p> </p><p>“And your mum?” </p><p> </p><p>He looked down. For a moment, he swore he could feel his mother’s kiss on his forehead, the cool press of her lips against his skin. If he looked up—</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know where your mum lives?” Ivy asked, and though her tone was sharp, she mostly looked confused. </p><p> </p><p>He opened his mouth, trying to think of the words. But he had never spoken of his mother’s leaving before, not to anyone. What could he say? ‘My dad was a bully, and one day my mum just couldn’t take it anymore, so she left a child at the mercy of the bully and fled’? </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t—” Ivy started, but Elliott cut her off.</p><p> </p><p>“She left. One day, when I was at primary school. Just… sudden. We came back and she was gone.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked slightly taken aback, as if she hadn’t expected an answer. “You don’t know where she is?” she asked after a moment, looking concerned. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head. </p><p> </p><p>Of course, he had tried to find her. Though he couldn’t use police resources for those types of inquiries, he knew the best private investigators in the business. He had paid one of them to investigate. But even by the time he had made it into the police service, the desire to know had faded considerably. What would it matter? She had been gone for more than half his life, by that point. She had never tried to come back. Clearly, she had no interest in Elliott.</p><p> </p><p>The investigator had brought him a file a week later: Amelia Carne, née Merritt, had moved to Inverness and remarried a man who owned a shop less than three years after she left Elliott and his father. She had a daughter and another son, half-siblings that Elliott had never met. </p><p> </p><p>He put the file away and never looked at it again. Perhaps she was still there, or maybe she had moved again. He didn’t know. Sometimes it was better to leave things in the past.</p><p> </p><p>“I just… don’t.” It was an old wound, one that he barely registered most of the time. It surprised him that it still hurt as much as it did. There were no words for it anymore. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t want to talk about it,” Ivy said slowly. When Elliott didn’t say anything else, she leaned back and pulled her knee up against her chest again, wrapping her hands around her ankle. Though her posture was defensive, her words were less so. “So why should I?” she said softly. “It’s my life. My past.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s hands tightened. He wanted to reach out to her, but was acutely aware of the camera in the corner. </p><p> </p><p>“You all just come in here, <em> acting </em> like you’re trying to help me,” she said. Her eyes burned into Elliott’s for a moment, before sliding to the empty spot beside him, where Lisa usually sat. </p><p> </p><p>There was a sting of accusation in the words, so real, though he wasn’t sure for what. He shifted, trying to think of what to say. Did she really think he was pretending? For a long moment, Elliott felt unease rise through him. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m trying to help you, Ivy,” he said, voice unexpectedly raw. He tried as hard as he could to communicate to her that this wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t someone he would walk away from. He <em> did </em> believe her. He trusted her. He would protect her as much as he could, but she needed to trust him back.  </p><p> </p><p>But he couldn’t move, couldn’t put it into physical reassurance. All he had to rely on was his words and his expression. It didn’t feel like nearly enough. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s expression was too complicated to understand when she looked back at him. She looked half like she wanted to go across the room to him, and half like she wished he would disappear.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott needed something to hold onto, something solid and real. The investigation. Wasn’t that why he was here? </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll put you down as never having seen this man,” he said, pulling the photo over from where he had forgotten it on the couch. “Never having heard mention of him?”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s eyes traced over the photograph in a way that told him she <em> did </em> know something. But she just said, quietly, “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Then she got up and left without a look back at him. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott took his time to put the photo back into the manila sleeve, his hands shaking slightly. </p><p> </p><p><em> Trust her, </em> he reminded himself. It was harder than he thought, following through on this conviction. Because while his instinct told him she was the victim, his gut told him that she was lying about something. What the police didn’t seem to realise was that both could be true. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Trust her. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He got up and pulled open the door Ivy had gone through. </p><p> </p><p>With that exit, he expected her to be gone. Instead, she was still there, leaning up against the bookshelf that framed the doorway. </p><p> </p><p>He pulled the door of the study shut behind them. In the shadow of the main stairwell where they stood, they were hidden from the kitchen and living room by the railing, and from the front door by the bookshelf. It was, unlike so many of the places they met, relatively private.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked up at him for a quick second, before she turned and pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. The unease that had twisted his stomach slowly settled at the weight of her in his arms. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott carefully wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her in. The envelope in his hands crumpled slightly against her back. He could feel her breath on his skin, her nose buried against his neck. Quickly, he turned his face against her hair and breathed in, just for a second. That sweet smell of vanilla eased the sharp edges of his heart, the heat of her body calming him down. It had a similar effect on her, too, if the way she sagged against him indicated anything. </p><p> </p><p>“Elliott,” Ivy murmured, her voice thick. </p><p> </p><p>The collar of his shirt felt damp. Her fingers dug sharply into his back, her hands fisted in his wool jacket. It hurt a little, but it kept him grounded. </p><p> </p><p>“I did… I did something. I didn’t want to,” she whispered quickly. Her arms tightened around him. “But he made me help him. I couldn’t stop him. Really, Elliott, I tried, but I couldn’t. Please just… trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” he said instantly. He ran one hand down her back to catch her waist. “But what is it? What happened?” </p><p> </p><p>She hesitated, her shoulders stiffening. The moment rested on a knifepoint.</p><p> </p><p>It hurt him to realise that she might not trust <em> him. </em> “If you tell me, I can help you. But I need to know—”</p><p> </p><p>The front door opened, and they split apart instantly. On instinct, Elliott moved between Ivy and the door, putting her behind him. But it was just Craig, Emma’s fiancé, stepping across the threshold, wearing a nice suit and tie. </p><p> </p><p>Craig gave him a glancing look as he pulled off his suit jacket with a few quick jerks, before his gaze slid behind Elliott. “Ivy, are you alright? </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” Ivy responded. </p><p> </p><p>"Em upstairs?" he asked. </p><p> </p><p>"Y-yeah, I think so."</p><p> </p><p>Craig nodded, and seemed about to leave, but paused. A frown flickered over his face as if he had realised something was amiss. "Do you need something, DI Carne?"</p><p> </p><p>"No. I was just about to leave." Elliott turned back, wishing they had time to talk about what happened but knowing now wasn’t the time. He could see that tears had formed in Ivy’s eyes again. “I have to go back to the station. Let me know if you remember anything else,” he said. “You know where to reach me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy nodded. </p><p> </p><p>He knew she would call that night, when she was alone. She would explain everything, he was sure.</p><p> </p><p>Then they found the body.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Standing outside of Maggie’s home, his body wrapped in the blue paper jumpsuit the forensic techs wore, goggles over his eyes, Elliott felt adrift. Unreal. There were so many people around him, streaming in and out of the front door that he had left, unopened, hardly 24 hours past.</p><p> </p><p>The sky was a bright, sharp blue—unusually so. Light blared down from above, too bright. Everything felt thrown into high relief. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott distantly heard his name being called, and looked up. There was DI Miller, standing in the doorway, motioning him inside. Elliott followed. </p><p> </p><p>It was a farce, pretending to see Maggie’s body for the first time. Walking in, Elliott saw her resting on the floor of the living room. The forensic techs were still taking photos, waiting for the coroner to arrive before they took her to the mortuary. It was almost comical, walking up to her, but in the worst way. He felt strange, going through the motions like he hadn’t already been here, seen this, <em> felt </em> her death like a stab in the gut. </p><p> </p><p>And now he had to stand in the same place with DI Miller at his side as the detective murmured theories, wrote observations in his notebook. Elliott knew he should be doing the same, but he could hardly think. </p><p> </p><p>It seemed different, to see Maggie’s body here, now. Alone, she had looked so vulnerable—her broken body small and human on the carpet, her blood a horrible twist of nature. Elliott had felt cut off at the knees at the sight.</p><p> </p><p>With all the forensic techs around, he felt almost nothing. The bright flashes of their cameras, the careful categorising of potential evidence being photographed, put into plastic bags or containers neatly marked with description, where it had been found, the time it had been logged. Was this what being human was? Catalogued things, a body photographed where it lay, people walking around the body like it was just another <em> thing?  </em></p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or scream. Both seemed equally mad and equally compelling. </p><p> </p><p>He was so numb he hardly remembered being walked out of the house toward DI Miller’s car. It wasn’t until he was directed inside that he realised DI Miller was saying something to him. </p><p> </p><p>“—’m sorry, Carne. I know we met with her before. Don’t feel responsible, lad.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott could hardly come up with the words. “But I—”</p><p> </p><p>DI Miller shook his head and directed Elliott into the passenger seat of the car. “You did what you could.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt the words dry up in his throat. He hadn’t done what he could, that much was clear. If he had done what he could, Maggie wouldn’t have been dead on the floor tonight. Her husband would’ve been in jail long ago, and Maggie would’ve been free. He and DI Miller would’ve never had to have spoken of her again, because she would be fine, alive, living a life far from any harm that might occasion a visit by the police. </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t done all that he could. He had done even worse. He had gotten her killed. </p><p> </p><p>Because there was no doubt now. With the mobile phone she had bought to speak with Elliott in her husband’s pocket when he died—after he had <em> murdered </em>her—there was no way he hadn’t known his wife was contacting another man. A jealous, abusive man riled up by years of feeling like the victim, Maggie’s husband would’ve done no less than murder the woman he felt had betrayed him.</p><p> </p><p>So Elliott was a party to it. He was the reason.  </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t realised how similar that made him to Ivy until much later. Until everything had gone to absolute shite, and he had teetered on the edge of some horrible precipice, wondering how he had gotten there and yet unable to move away. </p><p> </p><p>They were just two hearts, beating in the same, familiar pattern. He was so ready to forgive her for something that he could not forgive himself for. </p><p> </p><p>How she, too, had been the reason, but he could not fault her for it. She, unlike Elliott, <em> had </em> done everything that she could.  </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>There were traces of DNA inside the plastic sheeting wrapped around the body, some of which were probably Ivy's. Her fingerprints were all over the plastic, and strands of what looked like her hair were found between the skeleton's fingers. Preliminary reports indicated it was Dylan Hawthorne, who she said she didn’t know, and yet her involvement in his death seemed all but certain. Elliott didn't fucking care. </p><p> </p><p>He was fucked either way. </p><p> </p><p>Standing outside the mortuary, staring at the skeleton lying in pieces on the stainless steel examination table, Elliott asked, “How did we find it?” </p><p> </p><p><em> “I </em> went looking,” Lisa said, and the rebuke was there, under her words. It didn't even take looking.</p><p> </p><p>He knew what she was saying: Elliott was a shit detective; he hadn't looked close enough; he hadn't decided to take a house down brick-by-brick because he was so intent on finding evidence to support a theory that a victim was not a victim, but in fact a <em> perpetrator </em> of a heinous crime. </p><p> </p><p>He was able to admit he could have looked closer, perhaps. But a finding like this wasn’t just unusual—it was once-in-a-lifetime. Lisa should be proud, Elliott thought with a touch of cynicism. This was likely to get her that DI promotion after all. </p><p> </p><p>“The rest of 5 Colbridge Road... the garden, surroundings—it's being pulled up as we speak,” she said.</p><p> </p><p>“You think there could be more?” he asked, unsure. </p><p> </p><p>Mark White, a serial killer?</p><p> </p><p>There was something that niggled at him. The killing of a family member didn't necessarily track with a serial killer's MO. Male serial killers often killed strangers or acquaintances. It was near on the opposite of how rapists chose their victims—perpetrators of sexual assault often chose people close to them. Mark White wasn’t a proven serial killer but he was certainly a rapist. Ivy had implied that Mark White hadn’t begun to sexually assault her until she was sixteen years old—three years after her abduction. No one would describe them as strangers or acquaintances by that point.</p><p> </p><p>No, Mark White hurt people close to him. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa's silence, however, was answer enough of her favoured theory.</p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Pradesh is saying he's been down in the cellar for <em> seven years. </em> Meaning Ivy was down there with him.” Lisa put such emphasis on the words, it was as if she were sure Ivy had been involved. Rather than silenced. "Elliott, don’t you understand? This is proof she’s lied to us. She's been protecting White this <em> whole time. </em> He kills Dylan, his own family, she keeps quiet. Even now, when he has Phoebe, Ivy doesn't speak up, doesn't say, 'Oh, by the way, he's killed before.’ Don’t you see?"</p><p> </p><p>For a brief, horrible moment, Elliot felt himself nearly dragged into believing the theory. </p><p> </p><p>It was a compelling one, no question—it was one of those ones that could grab you by the gut and drag you headfirst into something macabre and fascinating. It had the ability to blind you with overwhelming, disbelieving <em> belief </em> without waiting around for more proof. If you looked only at the fact that Ivy had been in the cellar for years and so had Dylan, and wondered why she had never spoken of it, you had the makings of a grand suspicion. </p><p> </p><p>But that was what being a detective was about. Not ignoring that immediate gut-punch idea in total, but considering it, <em> and </em> any number of other theories, fully. It was dangerous to get tunnel-visioned. Not just dangerous: deadly.</p><p> </p><p>It would be so easy to believe that Ivy, reticent and unforthcoming as she had been, was hiding something. All because she was trying to... well, there was the rub. Trying to <em> what, </em> exactly? </p><p> </p><p>Taking a step back the theory made, on the whole, no <em> bloody </em> sense. Huge questions the police needed answers for to make this theory even slightly possible were not only unanswered, they remained <em> unasked. </em> </p><p> </p><p>First off: why bother running away, if Ivy was really so devoted to Mark White? Second: why reveal not only his identity, but his home base, DNA evidence, prints, names of family members—if she was trying to protect him from police scrutiny? Third, why go back to her family if all she wanted to do, in Lisa and all the other members of the CID's minds, was to stay with White forever? Why give them hope that she still lived, when they had given up hope years ago?</p><p> </p><p>Elliott struggled to understand this. The leaps in logic that Lisa was making seemed to connect, but ignored all these questions. The ‘evidence’ was all circumstantial. All motives were, at best, assumed. At worst, they were conjured up to fit the theory, with little basis in reality.</p><p> </p><p>Even though the medical conjectures that Dr. Pradesh was making were based on experience, they were still, <em> all of them, </em> unsubstantiated. There were forensic tests that still needed to be completed to even verify that the body had been down there for seven years, never mind anything else. They needed a DNA match at the very least to even confirm it really <em> was </em> Dylan Hawthorne, because dental records were notoriously unreliable. </p><p> </p><p>But he had voiced all of these questions to Lisa before and she had ignored them. He switched tactics.</p><p> </p><p>"Seven years ago,” he said, “that makes her nineteen, at <em> most, </em> at the time of his death."</p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s eyebrow quirked, as if she hadn’t expected this tactic. "So?"</p><p> </p><p>"A nineteen-year-old... a young woman, kept captive for six years by then, knowing her captor murdered someone. She’d be terrified.” Elliott ran a hand across his face, thinking. "And you expected Ivy to volunteer information like that to you? After the way you've been treating her?"</p><p> </p><p>Lisa looked affronted. "I asked her for the truth and she lied to us. I've been treating her like an adult, Elliott."</p><p> </p><p>"No, you've been treating her like a <em> suspect </em> since the very beginning. You already threatened to throw her in prison."</p><p> </p><p>“Only if she was found to have helped Mark White,” Lisa replied. She didn’t deny the threat.</p><p> </p><p>"Threatening someone who was held captive for thirteen years with imprisonment… d’you see why that’s fucked up?” Irritation riled Elliott. “How’s she supposed to reckon the difference, what we would consider to be helping or not? Everything she's told us, we turn against her. No wonder she doesn't want to say anything."</p><p> </p><p>"Maybe if she told us something, <em> anything </em> true, we could trust her and we wouldn't have to <em> explain </em> the very real and serious consequences of lying to the police."</p><p> </p><p>"It's not just an 'explanation' if you use it as a weapon." When Lisa didn't reply, Elliott continued in a low, fierce voice, "We’ve already blamed her for every other goddamn thing in the book. You even thought she was complicit in her own abduction.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought she had been groomed,” Lisa shot back.</p><p> </p><p>“No. You thought <em> because </em> she might’ve been groomed, she had planned to ‘run off’ with Mark White.” Elliott clenched his hand into a fist where it rested on the glass separating the hallway from the mortuary, trying to calm himself down. “In what world would grooming a child into believing that running off was all her own idea even absolve White of his crime? Since when does that make her guilty of her own abduction? He still kidnapped her. He still held her captive.” </p><p> </p><p>“And she still lied to us. To you.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head, ignoring the dig. “All you’ve done is found a body in a house of a man with a history of violence. One who's known to abuse people. Why’re you looking at Ivy?” He met Lisa’s gaze. “Why’ve you stopped looking for White?”</p><p> </p><p>Nothing phased Lisa. “She’s perverted the course of justice by omitting this information from her testimony. She has prevented us from finding him.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott laughed, harshly and without humour, at this. The idea that Ivy was the reason they were grasping at straws to find Mark White was ludicrous. They were closer than they had been in years because of her. “Prevented us? She’s hardly the one preventing us. We’re the ones getting in our own goddamn way, focussing on absolute shite like this.” </p><p> </p><p>“By fabricating her story when she was held captive—”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott cut her off. “D’you hear yourself? Her story of <em> being held captive </em>. You understand what ‘captive’ means, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“I understand what ‘perverting the course of justice’ is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you?” Elliott demanded, drawing up close to her. “Intimidating a witness? Threatening her with prison because she won’t give you the answer you want? Is that not also perverting the course of justice?”</p><p> </p><p>Instead of responding, Lisa shook her head at him. “You’re too far in this, Elliott. You won’t look at the facts, you’re so set on her being innocent.”</p><p> </p><p>Anger twisted at him. “You’re far in this, too,” he grit out, “only you’ve just decided she’s guilty.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa gave a last, parting shot before she pushed past him. “One of us has evidence to back up their theory, and it’s not you.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Nothing Elliott did or said could have stopped them from arresting Ivy. Not with everyone convinced of her guilt like they were. He didn’t think they’d be able to do it so fast, but trust the police to speed this one part of the process up.</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he realised she had been brought into the station, he ducked out into an unused recess off the main hallway. Lisa must have spoken to Chief Superintendent Burridge, because Elliott hadn’t gone with her to arrest Ivy, and he certainly was no longer the one in the interview room—no, that honour was all on Chief Superintendent Burridge and Detective Sergeant Merchant, now. </p><p> </p><p>He dialed Ivy’s home phone number. It only rang once before a harried voice picked up the phone and asked, “Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Mrs Moxam. This is DI Carne,” he said. “I’m calling—”</p><p> </p><p>“DI Carne? Where is Ivy? DS Merchant came by while I was—while I was out. Emma said she didn’t know why she was here, because Ivy was at her friend’s, and she didn’t want to talk. Apparently Craig drove Ivy to Eloise’s, but he doesn’t know where she is either, and I haven’t been able to get in contact with either of her friends.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott sighed, feeling exhausted. Of course they wouldn’t inform her family of the arrest—to hell with whatever little trust there was left between the Moxams and the police. To hell with any basic decency. “She’s been arrested, and she’s here at the station. There’s new evidence that’s come up—”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Arrested? </em>And evidence? Evidence of what?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott had to physically put a hand over his mouth to keep himself from saying anything. <em> A body. DNA, probably. Strands of what looks like your daughter’s hair. Her prints probably all over the bag. </em>Finally, he said, “I can’t share information like that from an ongoing investigation.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Ongoing investigation? That is my <em> daughter </em>, DI Carne, and you are supposed to be keeping her safe and now she’s been arrested. If you care about her at all, you’ll—”</p><p> </p><p>“Mrs Moxam, I’m calling to tell you your daughter needs legal counsel. Immediately. You need to come down to the station, now, and you need to have a solicitor with you, or one on the way.” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt a nauseating sense of guilt crawl up his throat. He should have done this from the very beginning. From the moment Ivy stepped inside the station for the first time, she should have had a solicitor with her.</p><p> </p><p>Truthfully, even victims and witnesses were better off having legal representation present any time they spoke to the police, if just to make sure nothing they said implicated them in a crime. It wasn't something the police advertised, because it complicated things, but to be honest, they shouldn’t have talked to Ivy without a solicitor at all. She had consented to the interview at the time, so they weren’t legally required to inform her she could call one, but morally… well, the police clearly weren’t compelled by morals. </p><p> </p><p>In hindsight, it would have helped. This whole situation might have been avoided, or at the very least, mitigated. </p><p> </p><p>Christina’s sharp, angry voice broke through his thoughts. “I said, what kind of <em> evidence </em> do you have? What the hell are you accusing her of now?”</p><p> </p><p>“A solicitor, Mrs Moxam. A good one, specialising in criminal defence, understand?" He ignored the shocked gasp on the other end of the line. "I promise you, I’ve told you all I can,” Elliott said, and hung up the phone.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott took a deep breath. He didn’t want to watch the interrogation in progress, but he was sure he couldn’t leave it alone. So instead of going back to his desk, he hurried up the hallway. The observation room was, predictably, packed and he had to push his way past a few of his curious colleagues to get to the front. </p><p> </p><p>Though Ivy had been informed of her right to legal representation, in that regular drone every police officer had been made to memorise—<em> we are arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice you don't have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court anything you do say may be given in evidence— </em>she hadn’t called one. She hadn’t even called her family.</p><p> </p><p>The way the reading of the rights was phrased, so cleverly implying that one had to respond when questioned or else risk losing the ultimate right to explain, was effective at compelling people to talk. But there was no need for her to speak before she could consult with a solicitor. She just had to remain quiet until her family got there with help. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott watched the interrogation with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He stared straight into the room, as if he could affect the outcome that way.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked at Lisa, and then Burridge. “Where’s Elliott?” she asked, quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa and Burridge exchanged a look. </p><p> </p><p>“DI Carne is working on locating Phoebe Tarl,” Burridge said, so smoothly it didn’t even sound like a lie. </p><p> </p><p>“Can he come here?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa shook her head slightly. “No.”</p><p> </p><p>Unlike with Burridge, Ivy seemed to recognise this as a lie, even if all she knew was that Elliott wasn’t coming and they weren’t going to allow her to ask for him.</p><p> </p><p>She looked at the reflective glass that separated her from the observation room as if she knew Elliott was behind it. She sat stiffly at the table, her hands digging into her knees.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell us what happened, Ivy,” Burridge said. </p><p> </p><p>He opened a slim manila file with the images of the body. Elliott knew them so well by now: one of where the body had been found wrapped in plastic and resting awkwardly in the corner of the small space behind the plaster wall; and then the autopsy photos, which was less like an autopsy and more like picking through bones. </p><p> </p><p>Burridge slid one of the former toward Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>“Can you tell us what happened to cause Dylan Hawthorne’s death?”</p><p> </p><p>The moment she caught sight of the picture of the wrapped-up body, Ivy made a terrible, <em> agonised </em> cry, like her heart had just been wrenched from her body. </p><p> </p><p>The hairs on the nape of Elliott's neck stood on end. The personnel in the observation room—all of whom were seasoned police officers—flinched back at the sound. But the sound was nothing in comparison to the look on her face. Her expression was so horrified that for an instant she looked transformed into someone else, her mouth half-open in a scream, her eyes so wide her irises were completely surrounded by white. </p><p> </p><p>In a flurry of motion, she swept the photo off the table with one hand and dove for the file with the next. That, too, she shoved to the floor, where its contents scattered across the laminate. </p><p> </p><p>Burridge lifted his hands so as not to impede her. He didn't even look at the file as it fell. Instead, his gaze was focussed solely on Ivy. Lisa, too, was staring at Ivy—alert, bracing for further violence.</p><p> </p><p>For a second, the room was completely silent and still.</p><p> </p><p>And then as if all the strings keeping her upright had been cut, Ivy collapsed onto her seat again. Her head drooped toward the table, her arms cradling her face to protect her from an unknown threat. Sobs echoed through the bare room. Ivy's shoulders shook as her body heaved to take breath. </p><p> </p><p>Surely they would deem it an overreaction, or even a calculated performance, to the photograph of the dead body. But if Ivy really <em> had </em> been there at the time, this wasn’t just a photo to her. The skeleton had been a person that she had known. All of this, then, was a horrible reminder of when someone had been murdered, likely in front of her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter what they did after that. Even when she drew herself upright again, Ivy was completely non-verbal, as she had been when she had first escaped. It didn’t matter what questions Burridge or Lisa asked her. They poked and prodded her, chiding her and encouraging her, but she didn’t respond. Even when Lisa pulled a chair around the table to face Ivy, Ivy turned her gaze away. </p><p> </p><p>She stared into the middle distance, her pale face puffy and red, cheeks streaked with tears, not acknowledging anyone else. </p><p> </p><p>It hurt to see her like that. As if she had disconnected from reality because it was too painful to be there. Elliott had no doubt that her thoughts were nowhere near the interrogation room. Like her, his thoughts felt dragged inexorably into the past. All he could see was a body, lying still on the ground, blood blooming around a horrible fracture in the skull of someone he had known. Even now, he had no words for it. If asked, he wouldn't have been able to speak of it.</p><p> </p><p>The silence dragged on for long, arduous minutes. Even the officers in the observation room got restless, shifting on their feet, although no one spoke. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, there was a sharp knock on the door. Lisa and Burridge turned, and DS Jesse Rawlins opened the door to the interrogation room. He nodded at the both of them. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, they followed him out, leaving Ivy sitting alone in the room. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott pushed his way <em> out </em> of the observation room this time. By the time he got to the hallway, Lisa, DS Rawlins and Chief Superintendent Burridge were already walking the opposite way, conferring quietly. </p><p> </p><p>“—she’s insisted to see Ivy, sir. She said she’s called for a solicitor and we’re to stop the interview,” Jesse said. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa shook her head. “Sir, Ivy’s an adult. What her mother demands doesn't apply here. We should continue—”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Burridge said. There was a set to his shoulders that spoke to exhaustion, even though his voice was calm. “We’re not getting anywhere. If we continue much longer, at best we’ll be coercing a confession, which will likely be useless anyway. Is Mrs Moxam here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve put her in the waiting room,” Jesse said.</p><p> </p><p>Burridge let out a low breath, almost a sigh. It was the most emotion Elliott had seen out of him this week. “Let’s speak to her, see if we can get her to speak to Ivy.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Christina, thankfully, held out for a solicitor. Everything had to be put on hold for an hour for one to show up. There was a long consultation period, which the police could not be privy to, before the solicitor, Ivy’s mother, and Ivy returned to the interview room.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa and Burridge took their seats across the table from them. </p><p> </p><p>The solicitor—a woman in her mid-forties who had introduced herself as Elise Su, with her dark hair pulled back into a severe knot at the base of her neck—gave them a short nod. “Ivy has agreed to share with you what she knows of Dylan Hawthorne’s death.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy, her hand held tightly by her mother’s, spoke haltingly. “He was Leonard’s—M-Mark’s brother. Dylan. He was kind to me. He tried… he tried to help me. He was nice to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nice, how?” Lisa prompted.</p><p> </p><p>“He brought me things. Sweets, and things like that I wasn’t allowed. He talked to me. But <em> he </em> didn’t like that,” Ivy said, and it was obvious who she was speaking of. Mark. “He couldn’t… he didn’t want anyone else close.” Ivy’s voice shuddered out under the weight of a sob. </p><p> </p><p>Christina rubbed her back with one hand. </p><p> </p><p>Burridge nodded slightly. “What happened, Ivy?” he asked, voice almost soft.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy stayed quiet for a long time, so long it almost seemed as if she wouldn't respond. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, she spoke, words halting. “One time… one time Dylan was left in charge of watching me. And I—I tried to escape. I <em> tried.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Christina put a hand to her mouth, her eyes glittering with tears. It was clear she knew this, but it still wrenched a strong reaction.</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to go home, mum. I wanted to see you, s-so much,” Ivy said, breaking down in tears. “Dylan was left in charge of me, and he let me out of the cellar. I knew it was the only… I tried to escape, but—"</p><p> </p><p>Lisa and Burridge were completely silent. Everyone knew there was a <em> but </em> to that sentence and it clearly hadn’t ended well.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy took a shuddering breath. "But he came back early." She looked at her mother. "I was so <em> close.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Christina was crying, tears streaking down her face. “I know, Ivy, darling. I know.”</p><p> </p><p>The words spilled quickly from Ivy’s lips after that, as if now that she had said some of the words aloud she needed to get the rest out immediately. “And M-Mark, he got so angry. I had almost escaped and he got so, so angry. He shoved me and I fell. And I thought he would—I thought he would—”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy swallowed around the words ‘kill me’, but they all heard them, just the same. </p><p> </p><p>A chill raced down Elliott’s spine. </p><p> </p><p>“But then he grabbed Dylan and he tackled him down, too. He pinned him and got over him and grabbed his head and just… he just kept hitting Dylan’s head against the ground, and there was this <em> sound… </em>” Ivy closed her eyes. </p><p> </p><p>The atmosphere in the observation room had chilled considerably as Ivy spoke, and now it felt frozen. Every police officer was watching the scene with rapt, horrified interest. They all knew the sound of assault intimately, the sound of human flesh and bone slamming into something, breaking—and the primal sense of <em> wrongness </em>that went through a body when one heard it. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy continued. “I begged him to stop. I begged him, to punish me instead, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen to me. He never did. I told him it was my fault but he didn’t listen. And he killed Dylan because of me.” She took a shuddering breath. “He’s <em> dead </em> because I tried to escape. It’s my fault, mum. If I hadn’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“No, no. No, I’ve told you this and I’ll tell you again: it’s not your fault, Ivy. You’re not responsible for what that man did, not ever.” Christina wrapped her arms around Ivy and pulled her close. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m a monster,” Ivy whispered. Her voice was thick with tears. "He said you'd hate me if you found out."</p><p> </p><p>“No. You’re my beautiful little girl,” Christina replied, pulling back and holding Ivy’s gaze. “And I love you no matter what.”</p><p> </p><p>Here was the reason Ivy hadn’t told them of the body. Here was the reason for her hesitation and the ‘gaps’ in her story. Here, too, was the reason she had never tried to run, even when in the middle of a busy shopping centre. Ivy had been taught, very painfully, what happened when she tried to escape. </p><p> </p><p>On the other side of the glass, Elliott could see the stricken expressions on Lisa and Burridge’s faces. Their discomfort was clear, no matter how they tried to hide it. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt a bitter sort of justice at this. They had doubted her, questioned her, threatened her, accused her—and finally, after all their efforts to break her down, they had wrung this terrible secret from her. Now they knew the true horror of Dylan Hawthorne's death, and it should've surprised no one. It certainly didn’t surprise Ellliott. </p><p> </p><p>Mark White had killed his half-brother. A man in desperate need to control a situation had murdered someone who had threatened that control. </p><p> </p><p>Burridge and Lisa made her describe, in detail, how she had been forced to pour bleach over the body and wrap it up, because Mark was too disgusted by his own actions to do so. Ivy had whispered, “He didn’t want to see his face.”</p><p> </p><p>When Lisa leaned over the table and said to Ivy, “Thank you for doing that,” Elliott felt a chill run through him. </p><p> </p><p>The absurdity of it. The fakeness of it. This morning, he had been the worst type of traitor for believing Ivy was innocent, and now, here was Lisa, <em> thanking </em> Ivy for what not an hour or two past she’d likely deem as ‘destroying evidence’ and ‘helping’ a killer.</p><p> </p><p>When Ivy had said, “Don’t come here, <em> acting </em> like you’re trying to help me,” this is exactly what she meant. She knew. She knew it was all fake.</p><p> </p><p>And what he had said to her—"I became a police officer because I wanted to help people"—seemed absurd in the face of this proof. The police weren't <em> helping </em> her, or anyone else. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott crossed his arms across his chest. </p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have been surprised that the questioning so quickly turned back to investigating Ivy’s motives for never having shared the information before. </p><p> </p><p>“This is where it complicates things for me, Ivy,” Lisa said, leaning forward. That momentary expression of sympathy had faded away. “You know Mark White is violent. There’s a ten-year-old girl he’s holding captive right now, yet you never said a word of this to us.”</p><p> </p><p>“To what bloody end?” Elliott muttered to himself. </p><p> </p><p>“DS Merchant,” Elise said, cutting across Lisa as she opened her mouth to continue. “My client has already made it clear that she is well aware of the violence that Mark White is capable of. She does not require your assistance in remembering. Do you have a question for her?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt a momentary satisfaction at the solicitor's response and how it reflected his own.</p><p> </p><p>Because what did it matter that Ivy had never said this? Didn’t they already know that Mark White was violent? That he kidnapped children and held them captive—that he beat them, chained them in cellars, and sexually assaulted them? Wasn’t Ivy proof enough of that? </p><p> </p><p>That he had murdered, too, seemed somehow unimportant. </p><p> </p><p>Murder was a one-time proof of violence, but long-term abuse, like the kind that had been committed against Ivy—that spoke to a deeply fucked up individual. Ivy already knew this. The person they were trying to wrest further information from by pushing the point of Mark White and his history of violence already <em> knew </em> Mark White was violent. The proof had been all over her body, in those purple-black bruises, some already yellowed with time and some fresh as the day before she had escaped. There was already photographic evidence. They knew it was true.</p><p> </p><p>But there was to be no satisfaction in knowing this truth. </p><p> </p><p>Because instead of being protected, Ivy had to prove herself to be the victim, <em> again. </em> Though the police had done everything in their power to undermine her testimony and foster distrust in her story, she had given them a truth that not only destroyed all of the accusations they had leveled against her, but which felt like it had swept the rest of the slate clean. </p><p> </p><p>Now they knew, but at what <em> cost? </em> </p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s heart had been shattered. She had been forced to relive and recount one of the worst days of her life, when the one person who had ever helped her had been murdered for doing so. Their ‘best lead’ had already given them everything that could help them before they decided to destroy her. Now, the little trust remaining between the Moxams and the police was long since dead and buried, put in the grave by none other than the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. And last of all, the clock was still ticking on Mark White’s arrest which, with every second they wasted time on unnecessary diversions, was becoming less and less likely.</p><p> </p><p>Because the sharp, irrefutable truth of it all was this: the confession they had forced from Ivy had done nothing to help them find Phoebe. Absolutely nothing at all.  </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Elliott went back to his desk before the questioning was even done. Though he wanted to stay and watch Ivy, there seemed to be no point. Ivy knew nothing else to help them find Phoebe. The solicitor was there to stop Lisa or Burridge if they went too far. </p><p> </p><p>And for all the police talked about how they wanted to save Phoebe Tarl, none of them seemed to be <em> looking. </em> That’s what he should be focussing on. </p><p> </p><p>He made his way into the bullpen and sat down to stare at his computer, wondering where to begin. There were already so many people working on this case, on every single angle, he needed a new idea. He opened his copy of the file on his computer and brought up the reports. His eyes traced over the now long-familiar photographs, autopsy reports, and transcribed interviews. </p><p> </p><p>One of the other detectives had put together a map of all of Mark White’s recent purchases on his traced cards, each one marked with a coloured dot that indicated how long ago the purchase had been made. Blue was six months back or more, green six to three months back, yellow between three and two months ago. Orange marked purchases in the last month, red in the last two weeks. </p><p> </p><p>The marks were spread all over the map of Bristol, some clumped together in obvious places, like the most popular of high streets or shopping centres, a few in random spots at the edge of the city or along roadways. </p><p> </p><p>Mark White had grown up in the area and knew it well enough to find a place to hide. It was unlikely he was out in the open, needing a place he could hide a young girl and plan on getting Ivy back. Property deeds had been a dead end. Colbridge Road had been under Carol White’s name, even now, and there hadn’t been any properties bought under Mark White or Dylan Hawthorne’s names that they could find in council tax records. They had even checked under Carol White’s maiden name, Davis, in the thought that she had purchased or come into a house through her family, but it led, again, to a dead end.  </p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s eyes traced over the dots. People were creatures of habit, especially those who knew a certain area very well. There were certain places Mark had returned to with some regularity in the last year, which were marked with all colours. He zoomed in on the map. </p><p> </p><p>The area around 5 Colbridge Road was surrounded by a colourful rainbow, although Elliott noted that the immediate area was blank, almost as if had been done deliberately. He scrolled over the map, catching sight of not one, but two high streets that bordered the area, and that should have been frequented by Mark White. Both were blank. No purchases had been made (at least with a card) in the area. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott frowned. Perhaps that was something.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Lisa and Burridge reappeared in the police bullpen without saying a word to anyone. Burridge swept into his office and Lisa came to sit at her desk across from Elliott. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott, still totally focussed on the map, hardly registered her arrival. It took him a moment to understand what it meant.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Where’s Ivy?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa looked over at him. Her expression hardly invited inquiry. “She’s going home.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did you charge her with anything?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she replied, no inflection. She looked back at her computer, typed something in.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t mean anything, really. It could be that Ivy really had been cleared, or that they were letting her go home while they put together charges against her… but the going-home-for-now was the important bit. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott locked his computer and hurried toward the family waiting rooms, hoping that Ivy was perhaps still there. On the way, he stopped at the booking desk, where they kept things like phones or keys of people who had been brought in for interrogation. </p><p> </p><p>“DC Thompson,” he said to the officer at the desk. “Are Ivy Moxam’s things still here?” </p><p> </p><p>Thompson nodded, and turned around grab the plastic bag that they had put Ivy’s phone and keys. He made Elliott sign the clipboard and handed over the release form for Elliott to have Ivy sign. When Elliot turned around and hesitated, unsure of which room, he offered, “They’re in Family Room 2.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott gave him a nod of thanks and headed down the hall. One of the DCs was just coming out of Family Room 2, obviously having escorted Ivy there. Elliott stepped inside the small room, generic in its furnishings but made almost personal by the run-down nature of the room, as for 15 years it had seen the ups and downs of families, waiting in the room for what they hoped wouldn’t be, but usually was, bad news. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was wrapped in her parents’ arms, Emma also leaning close. Their solicitor he had seen waiting in the entranceway to the police station as he had passed. Suddenly his presence felt intrusive. </p><p> </p><p>Angus caught sight of him first, pulling back from the embrace but keeping an arm wrapped around his daughter’s shoulder. “DI Carne,” he said, cautious, but not unfriendly. </p><p> </p><p>Christina and Emma looked around as well, and then Elliott met Ivy’s gaze for the first time that day. As always, it felt like a kick in the heart. For as long as it took to draw a breath, it seemed like it was just them in the room, Elliott’s heart beating in his ears while while Ivy stared at him, looking small but unbroken in her family’s embrace. </p><p> </p><p>Feeling like it had gone for a moment, he finally found his voice. “Ivy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Elliott,” Ivy said, as if she hardly believed it was him. A trembling smile curled at the edge of her lips. </p><p> </p><p>Christina looked at her daughter, a slight frown on her face, before she looked over at Elliott. Whatever her confusion, she seemed to resolve herself to something and strode up to him, putting herself between him and her family. “DI Carne,” she said, before she shook her head. Her tone was softer after that. “Thank you for telling us Ivy was here this evening. Although the rest… I can’t speak to the rest of this station’s conduct, I appreciated that. And your advice was very helpful.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott nodded, still feeling guilty. “‘S always a good idea, to have a solicitor,” he said. “In the future.”</p><p> </p><p>Christina nodded. “We’ve been told Ivy is free to go. Do you need her for something? More questions?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head quickly. “No, no. No questions. I’m not here for that. Just to drop off her things.” He caught Ivy’s eye around her mother’s shoulder. “I need Ivy to sign for them, if you can give us a moment…” </p><p> </p><p>Christina nodded, turning back and pressing a hand on Ivy’s shoulder before she and the rest of the Moxams filtered out of the room. </p><p> </p><p>Then Elliott and Ivy were alone in the room. Elliott was still highly conscious of the fact of the cameras in opposite corners of ceiling, definitely still recording even if none of the footage could be used. </p><p> </p><p>“You alright?” he asked, bringing over the plastic bag and forms to one of the short tables next to the beat-down sofa. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy followed him, and while he dug for a pen from inside his jacket, nodded. “Were you able to find anything about Phoebe?” she asked, voice quiet. </p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t have much time,” he replied just as quietly, pulling his pen out and holding it out to Ivy. Her fingers brushed over his as she took the pen from his grasp. The desire to reach out and hold her hand, just for a moment, surged through Elliott. But this was already slightly overwhelming, standing next to Ivy like this. “I… I was watching most of your interview. I’m sorry I wasn’t in there, Ivy.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy nodded, eyelashes shadowing her eyes, turning her cheek away as she bent over to sign the forms. She didn’t want to look at him. “It’s alright. You were just doing your job.” The way she said the words, so <em> understandingly </em>, made Elliott’s heart hurt in his chest. </p><p> </p><p>“They wouldn’t allow me in,” he said gruffly. “Ivy, let me explain. I told them—”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy shook her head quickly, cutting him off. “It’s alright, Elliott. There’s nothing to explain.” She looked briefly over her shoulder at him, and her hazel eyes glimmered. Her eyes were still red around the edges, from crying, but she looked as beautiful as ever to Elliott. So heartbreakingly sad. “You’re not my family, you don’t have to pretend to care—”</p><p> </p><p>With the pretense of pointing somewhere on the page, he leant closer. Ivy turned her face half-away, gaze sliding to the papers. </p><p> </p><p>“Ivy, I do,” he murmured into her ear. He wrapped his hand around hers, gratified when Ivy’s fingers tangled with his. The pen dropped, smearing ink across the page. “I do care. I never thought you were guilty of anything. And now we know what happened before, and I understand why you did what you did.” </p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s gaze slid toward him and she nearly shied away from him. “You heard what I said?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Elliott kept her gaze, tried to let her see his own faith in her. That he hadn’t left her by choice. “You did what you had to do to survive,” he said lowly. “And I’m glad you did, because you’re here, now.” He took a breath, feeling his heart beat in his ears. “With me.”</p><p> </p><p>He squeezed her hand one more time and she smiled, just slightly. Her shoulder leaned into his chest. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s what I was going to tell you, before,” Ivy said. “But I just… I didn’t know how to say it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” he said. Different words, more <em> serious </em> words slid under the current of those he said next. “I trust you.”</p><p> </p><p>But that’s not all that he was saying. Underneath the trust was something darker, deeper. More intense.  </p><p> </p><p>Ivy nodded. She wasn’t looking away anymore. “I trust you, too.” </p><p> </p><p>The same current through which Elliott’s words swam, Ivy’s followed. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Ivy went home. Elliott did not. There had to be more he could do. He stared at the map of card purchases, willing it to make some sort of sense. </p><p> </p><p>Tired, his eyes slid out of focus. The dots blurred together, becoming an uneven pointillism rendering of the city of Bristol. The areas around 5 Colbridge Road became colorful, the other areas bleeding out into hues of blue and green. Recent areas blared out of the map like bright lights. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott blinked, confused. Two other areas on the map stood out—a cluster of blue dots near the north edge of Bristol city proper, in the Horfield area on the west side of the M32. The other was closer to the motorway near Stapleton. Both seemed to stand out from the map for a moment, limned in dark blue. Those were places Mark White had been in the last year, but had not been to within the last 6 months. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott was just frowning at the areas, wondering how they overlapped, when a touch at his shoulder made him turn. </p><p> </p><p>Jesse stood at his elbow, a grim look on his face. “DI Carne, we’ve got a man claiming to be Mark White on the phone.” </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly Elliott was wide awake. “Have we got a location for him?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re tracing that now.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s demanding to speak to Ivy, or, as he calls her—Alison.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s fists clenched. No, Mark White wouldn’t speak to Ivy. Not if he could help it. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>They tried to trace the call as Elliott spoke to ‘Mark White’ and confirmed his identity. But Mark was quick. He confirmed his identity and demanded to speak to Ivy within the hour or else Phoebe would be harmed, then hung up. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked at the tech crew for an address, but the officers shook their heads. </p><p> </p><p>“Only got the mobile towers that got pinged during the call,” DS Graham said. He showed Elliott the map of Bristol. Overlaid on the winding streets were three transparent red triangles, marking off an area just northeast of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary police station. “These are the towers that were used, and only the towers closest to the caller get pinged. They changed twice partway through, so it looks like our guy was actually moving when he called.” </p><p> </p><p>Graham pointed at the M32 where it wound its way out from central Bristol toward Stoke Gifford. The triangles covered part of the motorway, starting near the St. Paul’s area and tracking up toward St. Werburgh’s. </p><p> </p><p>“We lost contact less than 30 seconds after this tower up here got pinged, so he must have been on the motorway, heading north. No way was he on any of these surface streets, going that fast. Not even at this time of night.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good job, DS Graham,” Elliott said gruffly and nodded in acknowledgment even as frustration reared through him. “This’ll help narrow things down.”</p><p> </p><p>He had no idea if it would help. He didn’t know if it meant anything about Phoebe’s location or if Mark White was just driving in circles around Bristol—Elliott didn’t know if he was really still in the city or he had left and just driven back. Elliott wanted to throw something across the room, but bit down hard on the impulse. They were <em> so </em> close to catching Mark White, to getting an actual location on the bastard, and he had slipped away. Again. </p><p> </p><p>And now Ivy would need to speak with him. To speak to her abuser after the day she had just had—arrested by the police, questioned for hours, recounting the gruesome details of a murder she had witnessed, and all the physical and emotional exhaustion that entailed. This was going to be one hell of a phone call. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll let the Chief Superintendent know,” Elliott said. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tomorrow. Cabot Circus. 3PM. No police. No one else. Just you, Alison. Just you, and I’ll let her go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mark White’s words echoed through Elliott’s head as he leaned it up against the cold tiled wall. The men’s toilets were completely empty at this hour, and he needed a break. The phone call between Mark White and Ivy was both better and worse than he had imagined it would be.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s horrified expression as she listened to Mark White’s voice again floated in front of his eyes. Elliott wiped a hand down his face. Fuck, he was tired. But he knew he had to go back to the incident room and help plan for tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>They would need everyone they could get. Something big, something <em> public </em> like the shopping centre at Cabot Circus required lots of agents in lots of different places, in order to ensure Ivy was always in the police’s eyeline. There were a ton of moving parts—shops, people, multiple floors, public and utility exits, cars in the parking garage underneath and on the roadway outside—none of which they would have time to get under control before tomorrow in a way that didn’t absolutely scream ‘police’. And if Mark White got uneasy, thought the police were involved, things could get messy. </p><p> </p><p>More than any of this, though, Elliott just wanted to keep Ivy <em> safe. </em> He had argued against her going, that they couldn’t guarantee her safety, but Burridge wouldn’t budge on it. </p><p> </p><p>“She said she’d go and she needs to be there. Mark White needs to see her or else he won’t show himself. We just need him to show himself. If we lose this, we’ll have lost our chance to get Phoebe.” Burridge’s gaze had bored into Elliott’s, asking him if he was alright with that. To be honest, Elliott was hardly sure where he stood on it either. To trade one person for another, as it seemed like they were planning, wasn’t right. </p><p> </p><p>“Besides, Elliott,” Lisa cut in. No surprise, she had been supportive of the plan from the beginning. “Ivy’ll be in a public space. We’ll have eyes everywhere. It’ll be a rough job, but we’ll have that, at least. She won’t disappear.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott had a hard time believing it. The past two weeks had knocked down his faith in the police’s ‘protection’ nearly past saving. The security detail posted to Ivy’s house had been a joke—how easily had Ivy disappeared that first time? And when Phoebe Tarl’s father had grabbed Ivy right in front of her home? And Tim, just walking up to the door with no one asking for ID? </p><p> </p><p>Elliott acquiesced, but only after Burridge guaranteed Elliott would be part of the security detail. At least he had that.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott headed back toward the incident room. But before he had taken ten steps, Ivy and Elise appeared from around the corner, obviously headed toward the exit. The solicitor hardly had a hair out of place, despite it being nearly 2AM when she had been called to accompany Ivy during the call with Mark White. Ivy had been pulled from bed, so Lisa had said, and looked a little worse for wear. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy caught sight of him first. “Elliott,” she said. A small smile lifted the corners of her lips. </p><p> </p><p>Elise looked around and caught sight of him. Her dark brows raised. “Ah, Detective Inspector Elliott Carne, I assume,” she said, putting out a hand. Elliott shook it. “My name is Elise Su, and I’m the Moxam’s solicitor. We haven’t had a chance to meet yet, but I’ve heard about you.”</p><p> </p><p>Her tone made it difficult to judge what, exactly, she had heard, although at that point, Elliott was basically past caring. “Nice to meet you,” he said on autopilot. "DI Carne."</p><p> </p><p>There was a beat of awkward silence. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, we were just about to leave,” Elise said. “Unless the police require something further?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, nothing else. Just, Ivy, we’ll need you back here at 10AM to prepare for, uh…” Elliott swallowed, his throat feeling full and unable to continue. They all knew what tomorrow meant. “Get some rest, if you can.”</p><p> </p><p>He doubted she would sleep tonight. The circles under her eyes were already so dark, but he could tell she was still on edge. They all were. Elliott likely wouldn’t get more than a few minutes snatched here and there in a doze on his chair, but that might well be more than Ivy would get.</p><p> </p><p>“Elliott, can you take me home—”</p><p> </p><p>“DI Carne, we’ll be leaving—” Elise stopped talking just as Ivy did, and looked at her. “Ivy,” she said, “I can drive you home.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s gaze went from Elise to Elliott and back. “I’d like him to drive me, if he can?”</p><p> </p><p>Elise and Ivy looked at him. He opened his mouth to refuse—he was busy, he had to plan for tomorrow, he was really so tired that driving was likely unsafe—but he couldn’t deny Ivy. “Yeah, I can take you home.” </p><p> </p><p>Elise shook her head slightly. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. As a police officer, he may ask you questions and if you need a solicitor—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Ivy said abruptly. “Really.”</p><p> </p><p>Elise didn’t seem happy with the answer, but she accepted it with a short nod.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps Elliott was more tired than he thought, since he didn’t even realise he was leading Ivy out to his personal car, rather than one of the squad cars in the police car pool, until he was opening up the passenger side door for her. By that point it was too late. He was at least glad he had cleared out the junk a couple of weeks before, so while there was a coffee cup in the cupholder and a jacket and an old pair of trainers in the backseat, the rest was fairly clean. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked around with mute interest at the inside of the car as he pulled out of the staff parking lot. One hand reached up to touch the little Millenium Falcon hanging from the rearview mirror, making it spin, before she let it fall. It settled on Elliott’s where it rested on the center console. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott turned his hand in hers, clasping those cool fingers between his own. He still felt rough and clumsy, but the tightness of Ivy’s grip settled something in him, eased a little bit of the pressure around his heart. </p><p> </p><p>If he felt nervous, though, he was sure it was worse for Ivy. Facing one’s abuser head-on was hard and dangerous enough on its own, even without the hostage situation. </p><p> </p><p>But when he shot a look at her out of the corner of his eye, she was looking out the side window. He couldn’t see her expression or guess at her feelings. He could only do what she allowed him to, and held on tight to her hand. Only when they were nearly to her house did she finally speak.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I don’t… I don’t know what it’s going to be like to see him. What’s going to happen?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Elliott replied. He knew he should try to reassure her, but there was little reassurance he could actually promise her. “But we’ll be there for you, every step of the way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will you be there?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Absolutely.” Elliott chanced a glance over at her, tried to meet her eyes. “The whole time, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy turned and grabbed onto his hand with both of hers, squeezing tight. “Elliott, I’m—” she started, before her voice cracked. She took a choked, shuddering breath, like she was on the edge of death. “I feel like I’m going to—”</p><p> </p><p>She sounded desperate, and in pain. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott pulled over at the next free bit of kerb and turned the car off. Beyond the glass of the darkened car was a park he didn’t know the name of, footpaths lit by yellow streetlamps. Trees rustled in the night breeze, but otherwise all was still. It looked so calm out there, when in the car it felt like there was pressure building, straining against its constraints, begging to be free. </p><p> </p><p>Unclipping his seat belt, he reached out to cover her hands in his. “Ivy, I’ll be there. We’ll be watching you, keeping you safe. We’ll get him and we’ll get Phoebe, and you’ll both be safe,” he said. He didn't say he had opposed the idea, that hostage situations needed to be more controlled to ensure the safety of the hostages. What good would that do him, or Ivy? They'd both still be scared. Instead, he voiced the half-hope, half-fear that twisted inside him. “It’ll be over soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy drew in a shuddering breath. Her voice was so quiet when she spoke, as if someone were going to overhear. “Elliott, what if I don’t—what if I don’t <em> belong </em> here anymore?”</p><p> </p><p>“What d’you mean?” Elliott squeezed her hand in his. “Ivy, of course you belong here. You shouldn’t be—”</p><p> </p><p>“What if he takes me back?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott inhaled sharply, the shock swallowing up his words. <em> No. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t that be better, for everyone? For me to go back.” Ivy’s hands trembled under his grip. “It’s just that—I’ve just messed everything up by coming back. Everything has fallen apart. Mum and dad, Emma and Craig, Tim and his wife.” She took a breath, as if strengthening herself to say the next words. “You and Lisa. Everyone’s fighting because of me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Lisa and I were never—but Ivy, none of that’s on you. That’s not how it works. You should—”</p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. “Everyone got used to me being gone. I just messed it all up again by coming back.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott thought of the hole that had yawned open inside of his chest at ten years old when he had realised his mother wasn’t ever coming back. Even now, twenty years gone, the pain lingered. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to go to her when he found her. Perhaps his pride had held him back, or the anticipated pain of the reunion had made him hesitate. </p><p> </p><p>But if his mother had ever decided to return—if she had ever indicated she thought of him still, he’d—it wouldn’t matter what he would have to destroy, he’d do it. Any upheaval, he’d weather it. </p><p> </p><p>It hurt, more than he could ever imagine, to be taken. But it hurt, too, to be left. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Elliott choked out. His throat felt half-clogged by a long-ago emotion. “No, you didn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no place for me here,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked up at him. </p><p> </p><p>He could barely see her features, smudged in the dark and only half-lit by the dim lights of the dashboard. It was impossible to know what her expression said. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, there <em> is,” </em> Elliott whispered. “Ivy, <em> stay.” </em></p><p> </p><p>He should have tried harder, he realised later. He should have said something else, something more clever, something that would assure her better and make her understand how important she had become—how important she had always been. But he didn’t. All the words tangled together in his throat and left him breathless. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe what happened would happen in any world, regardless of what he said. </p><p> </p><p>Or maybe it was the only thing he could offer to stave off the guilt already tightening its noose around his neck. </p><p> </p><p>In the moment, it didn’t matter. A heartbeat later, Ivy fell toward him as if she were collapsing and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her hot breath shuddered against his skin. That faint vanilla-musk scent overwhelmed him again and his heart thudded in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott slid his free hand around Ivy’s shoulders and drew her in tighter, his left hand still clutched between the two of hers. How badly he wanted to just gather her up and hold her, keep her safe, far away from the police and Mark White and everyone else. Ivy deserved to live in a world that wanted to keep her, and keep her safe—not one like this, where she was accused and left as bait and used as a token to bargain in a hostage trade. Not where she felt like she didn’t belong. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott turned his head and buried his face in her hair, feeling the heat and the weight of her. She was real and she was safe, right now. Tomorrow would come and they would do what they had to do, but tonight, they didn’t need to pretend. </p><p> </p><p>In the dark and private space afforded by the car, the labels of police and victim, interrogator and suspect, fell away until it was just them. They were both terrified, he was sure. They both ached for some sort of comfort, or reassurance, too.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy slid her hand up to cup the side of Elliott’s face. Pulling back slightly, she regarded him for a second. It was too dark in the car to see if she had been crying, and a moment later she had pulled Elliott in towards her and it didn’t matter anyway. She kissed him hard and desperately, no slow buildup. </p><p> </p><p>Immediately, Elliott responded in kind. The desperation didn’t alarm him—instead, something like relief spread through him as he clutched the back of her head in one hand, fingers tangling in her hair to draw her closer. Only dimly did he register the salt-bitter edge of tears on her lips. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy moaned and pushed closer, opening her mouth and sliding her tongue against his. A spark like an electric shock arced down his spine. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott kissed her back with the same passion, until their breaths became ragged. His skin felt hot and tight, his heartbeat rising up in his ears until he could hear nothing but the pounding of his blood and her gasps against his mouth. He didn’t know if it was passion or desperation, but he felt both. </p><p> </p><p>He was scared, too: that she would disappear, that this would fall apart, that everything would go wrong. The fear flipped a switch in his mind, putting an edge to everything, his desire, the way he kissed her, with lips and teeth and tongue in a way that teetered on the very edge of painful. It would be easy to fall into the heat of it, the sharp heat that rose in him at the press of Ivy’s lips on his, and forget everything else. </p><p> </p><p>But instead of falling into it, he tried to temper it. Instead of giving in, he tried to gentle his hands on her. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy just groaned against his mouth and dug one hand, <em> hard, </em> into his collar and yanked him in. Her knuckles pressed against his throat. Her other hand slid up his face and into his hair, grabbing him by the crown of the head. </p><p> </p><p>Against all his better judgment, his good intentions, Elliott felt himself getting hard. It was Ivy panting against his lips, the slick slide of her tongue against his, her hands on his skin, the way she arched toward him over the center console, like she wanted to get on top of him. And that image was very compelling. </p><p> </p><p>How easy it would be to help her climb over the center console to him, sit astride him. He could reach every part of her so much more easily that way, the smooth skin under her shirt, the curve of her breasts. How she would gasp softly when he slid his hands down to grasp her arse, her hips twitching over him, the heat of her over the sensitive head of his cock, even as it strained at his trousers. It would be so easy to do it—the image burned behind his eyelids as he kissed her.</p><p> </p><p>Desire had the ability to wipe every other thought from your mind, and he wanted that oblivion so badly he ached. </p><p> </p><p>Then, just as quickly as it started, Ivy pulled away. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott was left breathless and wanting, one hand still wrapped in Ivy’s hair, the other cupping her breast under her shirt, thumb tracing over where her nipple was, under her bra. His tie had been pushed aside and Ivy’s hand had slid inside the collar of his shirt, the first few buttons now undone. He felt as disheveled and keyed up as she looked, which was perhaps gratifying. No other girlfriend or lover had ever come close to that. </p><p> </p><p>No one had looked at him the way that Ivy was looking at him now. </p><p> </p><p>He hardly knew what had happened there, what had dragged them together like that. It had been like they had almost wanted to consume one another, to forget everything in the heat of their desperation. </p><p> </p><p>Then he was reminded, abruptly, where they were and what was happening. What they (the bigger <em> they </em>, the police and the Moxams) were in the middle of. </p><p> </p><p>Inappropriate, perhaps, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. </p><p> </p><p>“Ivy—”</p><p> </p><p>“Take me home,” Ivy whispered, her voice breaking over tears. </p><p> </p><p>He hesitated. There had to be something else he could do. Something he could say.</p><p> </p><p>But Ivy destroyed that idea with two soft words. “Elliott. <em> Please</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He drove Ivy the rest of the way home in silence, trying to calm himself down enough to think. But it was hard when he could still breathe in the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips still lingering on his. They pulled up her street and drove past the squad car, sitting two doors down from her front door. </p><p> </p><p>When he pulled over, he lifted her still-intwined-with-his hand to his lips and kissed the fragile, smooth skin softly. </p><p> </p><p>Her fingers flexed in his, like she was nervous. When he looked over, though, she smiled at him. It was just a slight lift of her lips, but it was enough. </p><p> </p><p>Walking up the sidewalk to her house, they walked next to each other, but didn’t touch. It was probably for the best, since Elliott was still half-hard. Desire fought against compassion for what would take precedence in his mind, and neither seemed to be able to dominate. </p><p> </p><p>If she touched him, desire would take over his rational thought and he’d want to ask to go upstairs with her again. They couldn’t do that. They shouldn’t. Not now, when no one would be sleeping and Elliott had to be back at the station as soon as he could. Not now, when she was upset and seeking even the slightest solace. </p><p> </p><p>“Goodnight,” Elliott said gruffly at the door of her house, before she let herself in. </p><p> </p><p>“Goodnight,” Ivy replied in a small voice. </p><p> </p><p>There were other words Elliott wanted to say. He could feel them on his tongue, pressing down, but he couldn’t get them to come out. Not like this. It would be too much. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he gave her a slight smile, and waited until she went through the door before he left. </p><p> </p><p>He never should have have waited. He should have known better. </p><p> </p><p>He should have known that for a case like Ivy Moxam's, where there was no precedent and every bad thing that could happen had <em> happened, </em> that to wait to say something important was asking for trouble. Was basically begging for something to go wrong.</p><p> </p><p>But his heart had still been beating in his ears, the taste of Ivy's lips on his tongue, and those things had felt like a boon, a sign of good things to come. He had felt confident that even if they could do nothing else, he could keep Ivy safe. </p><p> </p><p>It was hubris, again. All those lessons and he had learned absolutely nothing.</p><p> </p><p>It was asking for those words, caught in his throat that cold and fateful night, to remain forever unsaid.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>There was no time the next morning. </p><p> </p><p>No time.</p><p> </p><p>Everything was under control one moment—and the next, Ivy had disappeared. There were crowds of people in the Cabot Circus shopping centre, but from his perch up near Prêt-à-Manger, he could tell that none of them were Ivy. She was gone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her breath was so faint on the wire. Every moment it grew fainter, as if she were slowly fading into the aether. </p><p> </p><p>"Ivy, where are you? We've lost eyes on you," Lisa said. She started walking around the edge of the railing that overlooked the main body of the shopping centre, scanning across the crowds. The few undercover police officers that they had gotten to patrol on the other floors were doing the same, their sharp, trained movements giving them away in the organic flow of the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t enough. Of course, it wouldn’t be enough. They weren’t <em> prepared. </em> </p><p> </p><p>They never should have done this.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn't wait. There was no time to hesitate, or to think. </p><p> </p><p>He threw his coffee cup down and sprinted down the escalator to the second floor. Ivy was supposed to be standing on the bridge that arched across the shopping centre between the cinema and Marks &amp; Spencer. He rounded the bottom of the escalator and raced down the path, pushing past people until he was there, where she was supposed to be.</p><p> </p><p>Cold daylight streamed through the glass skylight above and pooled across the tiles. Ivy wasn’t anywhere in sight.</p><p> </p><p>“Ivy, where are you?” Elliott choked out, breath still harsh from his run down the escalator. He didn’t know why he thought she would respond to him. <em> Hubris. </em> “What direction did you walk in? What store did you see last?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m… no, please let her go. You promised,” Ivy said, her voice faint. She was clearly not talking to him. </p><p> </p><p>The blood in Elliott’s veins went icy cold. Mark was here. Ivy was talking to him. </p><p> </p><p>There was a voice on the other end of the wire, something so soft he could barely hear it over the din of the shoppers. </p><p> </p><p>Why had they agreed to have this tradeoff be here, amongst a huge crowd? Where it was so easy to get lost? Why had they listened to Mark White?</p><p> </p><p>Elliott whipped around, eyes tracing over the shoppers’ heads, looking for a flash of something familiar. People streamed by him. Too many people and none that he recognised. His heart felt like a ball of ice in his chest. “Ivy, tell me what you see. Anything. Anything at all.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a whisper on the wire, like a breeze or someone’s breath, before Ivy spoke. So quietly. “Please, just—just tell me. Where is she? You promised the police you’d not hurt her. I’m here, Leonard.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ivy, <em> where are you? </em> ” Desperation was making a cold sweat break out across his forehead. Elliott began walking in one direction, not knowing if it was the right one. No one had seen the way she had gone, which was <em> absurd, </em> considering how many police had been on each floor. “Just say where you are. Anything. Can you hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>Someone had to have seen her. If not police, then someone else. An idea flashed through him. Elliott stopped before an older woman sitting on one of the nearby benches.</p><p> </p><p>“Ma’am, sorry to interrupt, but my—my wife, have you seen her? She was just there,” he said, pointing at the space on the bridge. He couldn’t stop himself from panting, his breath so quick. “Er, pink jumper, long brown hair. She was there, right there, just two minutes ago, I think. And now she’s gone. S-she’s not answering her phone.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman looked at him skeptically. </p><p> </p><p>“Ma’am, please. Help me.” Elliott felt the lie coming to his lips, willing to say anything to get a reaction. “She’s-she’s pregnant. Very early, but I’m worried about her. Something might’ve happened.”</p><p> </p><p>That seemed to break through to the woman’s sympathy. “Woman in a pink jumper went that way,” the woman said, pointing down the length of the shopping centre, to where a service hallway branched off the main walkway. “Went to the loo, I’ll expect. That happens a lot, y’know, early on. She didn’t look well, that one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, thank you—thanks!” Elliott had barely clapped eyes on the ‘Toilets This Way’ sign before he had run off in its direction. There were a million things down those service hallways—toilets, storage closets, employee fire stairs, garbage chutes. So many places Ivy could hide or be hidden, or disappeared entirely. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was still speaking on the line. “—you <em> promised </em>. I-I’m here, Leonard. Let her go, like you said.” She paused, obviously waiting for Mark White to speak. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t have time. He turned the corner on the service hallway, footsteps beating against the tile. Where was she? After the entrance to the toilets, the hallway turned a sharp left, then right, like a maze. “Ivy, I’m coming. I’m almost there. Just wait.”</p><p> </p><p>There was silence on the other end of the line. Too long. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I will,” Ivy said softly. But the words weren’t for him.</p><p> </p><p>There was something final in her tone that stopped Elliott’s heart in his chest. Something defeated. A horrible dread twisted his gut. He ran down the hallway, looking for her, trying to catch a glimpse of her—her pink jumper, her dark hair, her pale face. If he could just catch a glimpse of her one last time, she would be fine. Mark would never get her. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s voice floated down the wire, like a breeze floating downstream. “Leave her, and I’ll come home with you,” she said. </p><p> </p><p>They were sweet words, but horribly bitter. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Elliott choked out. “No, Ivy, stop—!”</p><p> </p><p>A horrible ring of feedback in his ear made him flinch. He grabbed the earpiece on his headset and yanked it free. Even dangling around his neck, all he could hear was that shrill ringing, like a police siren, just in his head. Someone had fucked with the wire. It didn’t matter. He swore he had to be close, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>He finally sprinted his way around one last corner. There was an old passport photo booth in the corner, its curtain drawn. That had to be it. But when he dove toward it and yanked the curtain open, there was no one behind it. Elliott looked at the cracked leather seat, horror washing over him. </p><p> </p><p>He turned, but it was just an empty hall. The dented metal door that led to the fire stairs was propped open, letting in a cool draught. </p><p> </p><p>On the beige tile between him and the door lay the crumpled remains of Ivy’s wire. The battery pack had been smashed by a large foot and the wires that a police tech had taped to her chest just this morning now lay tangled together on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>There was no other sign of Ivy. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott felt like his knees had been cut from under him. This couldn’t be happening. No, this was <em> exactly </em> what he had warned Burridge about. This was why he hadn’t wanted to do this. Hadn’t they promised to keep her safe?</p><p> </p><p>Hadn’t <em> he </em> promised to keep her safe? And he had failed. </p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck, fuck, </em>fuck! </p><p> </p><p>Elliott picked up the wire and yanked the microphone cable from the jack. The ringing in his ears abruptly cut off. </p><p> </p><p>“Suspect moving through the southwest service corridor, down the fire stairs from the second floor,” he said into his earpiece, hoping now that the rest of the police officers could hear him. There were officers stationed outside the shopping centre. “Suspect may have Ivy Moxam with him, and Phoebe—”</p><p> </p><p>A sound made him turn abruptly. His heart leapt to his throat.</p><p> </p><p>But it was just a young girl crouched in the corner, arms around her knees. Her young face was puffy and streaked with tears, but immediately recognisable. </p><p> </p><p>“Phoebe Tarl,” he said, stepping forward. </p><p> </p><p>The girl flinched. </p><p> </p><p>He stopped, hands up. Everything in him was screaming at him to run down the stairs after Ivy but he couldn’t leave the girl alone. “I’m Detective Inspector Elliott Carne, with the police. You’re safe now. Did you see a man here? With a young woman in a pink jumper? Did you see where he went?”</p><p> </p><p>The girl stared at him with huge brown eyes, unanswering.</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps pounded down the corridor, and a uniformed officer appeared, followed close behind by Lisa. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott caught Lisa’s eye. “You’ve got her?” he asked. He hardly waited for her nod before he turned to continue pursuit. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Elliott, stop! Stop! Where are you going?”</p><p> </p><p>But Elliott was done listening to her. He knew there were other officers, but he couldn’t just sit here while Ivy was being kidnapped by Mark White, <em> again </em>. Not while she was still here, when he could still help her. He couldn’t lose her. </p><p> </p><p>He ran down the stairs, using the metal bannister to swing himself around. It seemed obvious that Mark White had taken her all the way down the stairs rather than into the main shopping centre, where there were so many more people, so many more eyes on her. Now that she was with him, it would be simple enough to get her out of there. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott could barely find his own thoughts through the overlapping conversations happening on the wire, let alone understand what was happening.  </p><p> </p><p>What he could understand was that it was chaos. No one seemed to know where Mark White had come from, nor where he had gone. Forty officers and not a one had a visual read on Mark White or Ivy Moxam. Fucking incompetent. </p><p> </p><p>They hadn’t put a tracker on Ivy anywhere, though it would have been the simplest thing. But it was clear that the Somerset and Avon Constabulary were naught but a right fucking joke, weren’t they?</p><p> </p><p><em> He isn’t finished with Ivy yet. </em> Lisa’s words ran through Elliott’s mind as he ran down the stairs and shoved open the door to the outside. In the grimy alley behind, cloudy sky hanging close overhead, there was still nothing. But he was closer than the rest running circles around the shopping centre, he was sure.</p><p> </p><p>Determined, Elliott thought: if Mark White wasn’t finished with Ivy yet, he wasn’t either. </p><p> </p><p>Today couldn’t be the end of it all. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy couldn’t disappear. Not like this. Not on a morning just like any other, the sun’s silver light muddled by fog coming off the River Avon and a damp chill to the spring air. Not with the sad, soft wisp of her words on the wire just for Mark White—<em> yes, I will, I’ll come home with you </em> . Not without a goodbye to her family, or before hearing a truth Elliott held so close in his heart it felt like breaking it just to speak the words into the world. It might have been worth it, might have been <em> enough, </em> to keep her safe. </p><p> </p><p>Later, he thought if only he had said it, something would have been different. If only he had done more, they never would have lost her. It was a ridiculous idea, but sometimes these beliefs were all that could be used to fight fear of the darkness. Sometimes prayers were the only things that could help to withstand the impossible unknowability of the future.</p><p> </p><p>They couldn’t lose her now, not when the impossible had already happened and a miracle had already occurred—Ivy had escaped for the first time. And more than they ever could have hoped: she had escaped entire, complete. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott wouldn’t let it happen like this. </p><p> </p><p>It was that kind of rash, bull-headed confidence that put him in the driver’s seat of the squad car, that found his fingers turning the key in the ignition. Put his foot on the accelerator. It was that kind of hubris that drove him to put himself between a desperate man and his only exit, thinking it would be enough to stop a tragedy already in the making. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott thought if he saw Ivy, he could stop this. </p><p> </p><p>And he did see her, in the passenger seat of the van. He saw her eyes widen in horror as Mark slammed on the accelerator and the van barrelled toward Elliott. Just for a moment, but he saw her. It felt like a boon for as long as their gazes met, which was just a moment. The space of a breath. Long enough to think it meant something.</p><p> </p><p>The next, he saw her dive across the front seat for the wheel, hands scrabbling for purchase—<em> why wasn’t she wearing a seatbelt? no, she’d be hurt, </em> he thought nonsensically—he saw, too, Mark White shoving her roughly back. The pain that spasmed across her face as her head hit the window. Then the front of the van loomed high in Elliott’s vision. Too fast, <em> too close </em>. </p><p> </p><p>A bitter, animal fear swelled up in him then, like a tidal wave surging up and over his body. Cold water froze his blood solid in his veins. </p><p> </p><p>And then the horrible noise of metal ripping apart reverberated through his body. It pierced straight into the tender marrow of his bones, as the solid structure that had held Elliott together for thirty years bowed under unimaginable pressure for a long, agonising second, before it <em> snapped </em> and gave way.</p><p> </p><p>In his chest he felt the squeal and twist of breaks. The jarring crunch of an abrupt stop. A sharp scream piercing the air. Glass splintering around him like silver bells chiming in the winter dark, fragments hitting his skin like snow on his face. White light exploding across his vision—just sharp, painful light splintering through his mind. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott knew he was going to be hurt, badly. He knew, terribly clearly, that he was going to <em> die. </em> </p><p> </p><p>For a moment this knowledge overtook him completely until it was all he knew and all he <em> was. </em> Everything froze, even the pain flooding his limbs, for this knowledge. This was it. There was no time to consider anything else. A split second, and he would die. </p><p> </p><p>The world flipped over, a universe turned upside down, and he was helpless in its grip. Life turned to agony and light turned to dark. Everything seemed upended. Chaos. Then the pain grabbed him by the throat and dragged him into a deep, unknowing darkness. </p><p> </p><p>Silence followed. </p><p> </p><p>Silence but not the relief, perhaps, of death. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PAST —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t go to Maggie’s funeral. He knew the cemetery her family had chosen for her, the dress they had put on her before they put her in the coffin, the date and time of she would be lowered into the earth. </p><p> </p><p>With those details, he could imagine it well enough: her body lying in the white cushions of the coffin, her hair spilling in gleaming waves around her face. Her expression would be so calm, belying the last moments of her life. Her clothes would be chosen specifically to have a collar high enough to cover the bruises that had emerged on her skin after her blood had stopped pumping. Her hands, elegant fingers straightened from their <em> rigor mortis </em>clawed grip, would rest gently on her chest. The sharp brilliance of her eyes would be hidden, irises finally clouded by death. </p><p> </p><p>All that had made her <em> her </em> had disappeared into the æther long ago.</p><p> </p><p>By the point they put her in the ground, she would no longer be Maggie. She was just a body. Dirt would pile on the coffin, the body within insensate, as the whole thing was swallowed up underneath the earth. A funeral seemed almost pointless. </p><p> </p><p>A cynical thought, that. Nonsensically, it almost made him laugh. </p><p> </p><p>What he remembered of the day of the funeral itself was strange to him. Fractured memories, and none of them making a lick of sense. </p><p> </p><p>The sky being a bright, shining blue. A sharp breeze racing over him down the River Avon towards the bay. People walking by him on the river walk, not one sparing a glance to where he sat on a bench, staring sightlessly at the muddy waters as they passed. </p><p> </p><p>To be honest, he didn’t remember much else of that day, or the week that preceded it. Or the month that followed it. Two months after, probably, if not more. Everything around that time blurred together in his mind, like a smudge of a hand across the film of his memory. </p><p> </p><p>The bits that stuck out were sharp. </p><p> </p><p>The look of Maggie’s mother’s pale face when she was told the news.</p><p> </p><p>The sound of her sister’s sob echoing down the police headquarters’ hallway. </p><p> </p><p>The red ribbon at the bottom of the BBC News broadcast with Maggie’s name as the announcer had talked dispassionately about her murder. </p><p> </p><p>The enlarged photo of her husband looming over everything for weeks and weeks and <em> weeks </em>, and how Elliott had callously thought he looked so different from the crushed body Search &amp; Recovery had eventually dragged up from the river.</p><p> </p><p>The bitter taste of his Costa coffee grown cold after he had stood too long at the river’s edge, steel railing cold under his hand, staring at the water and wondering if he, too, could find a cruel kind of release there.</p><p> </p><p>There was one stroke of luck, if he could call it that. The police never found out that Maggie had spoken to Elliott. They never found the SIM card that tied them together, or the phone records that would have finished his career in an instant. He was never brought in for questioning.</p><p> </p><p>He never turned himself in. </p><p> </p><p>A good man would have turned himself in. </p><p> </p><p>No, the truth was perhaps better suited: a <em> suicidal </em> man would have turned himself in. Put a target on his own back. Tie the noose himself.</p><p> </p><p>It had been easy enough to rationalise not telling the police anything. Perhaps it was selfish, or just self-preservatory. Truth or no, it wouldn’t’ve made a difference, anyway. By now, it was all done. She was dead.</p><p> </p><p>What did he know that would illuminate anything that wasn’t already clear by the evidence found at Maggie’s home, or all across her body? Elliott could tell the police that her husband was abusive, that she didn’t know how to escape him, that she dreamed of moving home and spending Christmas with her family again, but she was trapped, dreaming, fighting against a force she didn’t know how she could overcome alone. What of that did they not already know, or could so easily guess?</p><p> </p><p>The police knew all of that, had <em> known </em> the entire time, and it had made no difference at all. None. Their apathy to her situation had done nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Worse, still, was that Elliott had known and had <em> tried, </em> and still he had changed nothing. So what was the bloody <em> point? </em> His efforts hadn’t been enough to save her. She was still dead. </p><p> </p><p>Guilt made itself a heavy home in his heart, his throat, his gut—for months, afterward, he felt ill enough he thought he might be sick at any given moment—but it didn’t do him any good. It wouldn’t ever do him any good. Although her death would reverberate through her family for years and years, and he would carry this guilt within him for the rest of his life, it changed nothing for the police. </p><p> </p><p>How many similar cases had the Avon and Somerset Constabulary run across in the years—or even just the months—following Maggie’s death? How many abuse victims had filtered through their system, given nothing but a pamphlet and suspicious look-over by the police that did nothing but foster mistrust? How many of those had ended up their coroner’s slab, or missing?</p><p> </p><p><em> Too many. </em> And yet nothing changed. No one cared until there was a body to be found. Even then, it wasn’t about the body, but the person who had killed it.</p><p> </p><p>How could Elliott have thought it would be different with Ivy? Even with the extraordinary circumstances of her abduction and years-long captivity, he should have known it wouldn’t be any different. Because what was she, Ivy Moxam, the miracle girl, but another victim the police could turn the blame of their abuse on? </p><p> </p><p>And how quickly the police had started asking her the same old questions—<em> why didn’t you run? Why didn’t you escape?  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Did you want this? Did you deserve this? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Isn't it your fault, too? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the officers in the service gave up the pretense of caring eventually. Elliott had given up, too. It was hard to hold onto a candle of belief when the rest of the world was dark. It was hard to go against <em> the way things were done, </em> even when you were the one doing them. Especially so.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps it did take Ivy, and her extraordinariness, to wake up him again. Those eyes catching his, striking him in the heart. Her laugh, sweet and low, knocking him from his daze. Her patience, strength and vulnerability, all wrapped together in one, leaning into him.</p><p> </p><p>And when she had asked, Elliott had been made to remember that there had been good in his intention in the beginning. Even if there was nothing good in the way he was doing things now, he had joined the service at least in part because he wanted to help people—to help <em> her. </em> Once, he had been naive enough to believe the police could do so. Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>But he would help her, this time. He wouldn’t let them—her abuser, the police, the media, <em> anyone </em>—destroy her. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— PRESENT —</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His last memory of Ivy’s face—like the ring of a clear bell—woke him from an encompassing darkness. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott slid his eyes open, squinting at the bright light above. </p><p> </p><p>It took him a long, disorienting moment staring at the light for him to realise what was wrong: he was in hospital. </p><p> </p><p>Bulky bandages wrapped around his face and arm, and a temporary cast strapped down his broken foot. Pain medication weighed down his body. A lingering concussion made his ears ring with sound. </p><p> </p><p>Not dead, after all. </p><p> </p><p>He should have felt relieved, but instead he wasn’t sure what he felt. His thoughts spun across his mind, too fast to get a handle on. The lights pressed in on him, the weight of his body held him down, the memories of the past twenty-four hours crowded in—everything started to overwhelm him.</p><p> </p><p>So, just for just a moment, Ellliott allowed himself to hold still. </p><p> </p><p>He had gotten no rest these past two weeks. He could barely remember the last time he had slept. Even before today, he had been running on the very edge of empty, on the absolute last threads of his reserves. Now, here he was: broken in a hospital bed, each breath burning in his lungs, exhaustion making a home in his body, the taste of blood at the back of his tongue. </p><p> </p><p>Here was the irrefutable proof of it: this was what happened when he tried. </p><p> </p><p>And he had tried so hard for what felt like so long—and look where it had gotten him. Alone and in pain. Even Lisa wasn’t there for him. He had put that relationship in the grave as surely as he had gotten himself kicked off Ivy’s case. Possibly even fired. It was as if these past two weeks had poured petrol all over his life, ready to erupt with the slightest spark. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, though, he had been the one to light the match, heedless of the flames that burnt him.</p><p> </p><p>He should have been more upset about the whole thing. To be honest the thought, right now, hardly touched him at all. What the fuck did it matter?</p><p> </p><p>The sound of movement made him open his eyes. A figure rounded the edge of the curtain drawn around the edge of his hospital bed. For a moment, the dark hair made his heart leap in his chest, hope soaring—but it wasn’t Ivy. Of course it wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Emma gave him a small, tired smile. “Hi. You’re awake.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s throat was too dry to speak, and he didn’t know what he’d say even if he could, so he just gave a tiny nod. </p><p> </p><p>Emma took a hesitant step forward. “The police told us what happened.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” Elliott croaked. Surely it couldn’t be anything good. <em> Reckless, put himself deliberately in danger, disregarded orders— </em>the list was likely endless. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, they said—they said you found her, before he—before he got away. You tried to stop him. You tried to save her.” Emma paused, biting her lip. “I just want to—want to thank you for that.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t turn his head. He didn’t deserve thanks. The certainty that he had felt before had faded away. <em> Had </em> he tried? Had he actually tried hard enough?</p><p> </p><p>Emma’s eyes were rounder than Ivy’s, her face more squared off. She had a haleness that Ivy had lacked—where Ivy seemed a moment away from being blown away, Emma was more real, solid. Still, there was a similarity in them that had transcended the decade they had spent apart. And now Ivy was gone again, after only two short weeks returned. </p><p> </p><p>The sharp edge of despair that the thought dragged through him was barely dulled by the pain medication. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Gone. Again. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No, he didn’t deserve thanks.</p><p> </p><p>He made an unintelligible noise, the words he wanted to say turning to whispers instead.</p><p> </p><p>Emma stepped forward, seeming to realise Elliott couldn’t speak. She hurried over and poured a cup of water from a cup on the sideboard. Unwrapping a straw, she brought the whole thing over and helped him take a few cooling sips. </p><p> </p><p>“Mum’s here,” she said quietly as Elliott soothed his dry throat. “Dad’s still at the station, but Mum wanted to be here when you woke up.”</p><p> </p><p>Guilt twisted Elliott’s stomach. Why would Christina Moxam want to be <em> here? </em></p><p> </p><p>“Em?”  A voice sounded around the curtain, before Craig peeked around. “Oh. Hi, DI Carne.” Craig joined his fiancee before giving Elliott an awkward nod. “Glad to see you’re awake.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott grunted, unable to say anything else. This was just getting more and more bizarre. </p><p> </p><p>“How are you feeling?” Emma asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Bad,” Elliott replied. He didn’t know why, but it made both Emma and Craig smile slightly, as if he had told a joke.</p><p> </p><p>An awkward silence fell. None of them seemed to know what to say.</p><p> </p><p>“Have they…?” Elliott started, his brain too jumbled up to know how to put together the sentence. But the pair of them seemed to know exactly what he was trying to ask.</p><p> </p><p>Emma’s face fell, and Craig’s expression tightened. </p><p> </p><p>Of course, if the police had found Ivy, the Moxams wouldn’t be here. They’d be at home, or at the station, waiting for her.  </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Emma finally said. “They haven’t been able to find her.” She took a breath, steadied by Craig’s hand on her shoulder. Before she spoke, she reached up to place her hand over her fiance’s, holding tight. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott couldn’t deny the envy that sliced through him, nor the way his gaze fixed hungrily on the casual display of affection. An ache tightened his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you here?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>Emma and Craig shared a glance. </p><p> </p><p>“We wanted to be here for you,” Emma said. “When you woke up.”</p><p> </p><p>“And we needed something to do, to be honest,” Craig cut in. </p><p> </p><p>Emma shook her head, nudging him. </p><p> </p><p>“At home, and at the police station—they’re not telling us anything. It’s driving us all stir-crazy.” Emma paused, determination squaring her jaw before she said firmly, “You need to go back. Ivy, she… you care about her—about her case. I know you do. You’re the only one of the police who has believed her this whole time. You should be there. Helping us find her.” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t know what to do with the way Emma was looking at him—like she believed in <em> him. </em> That he could do something right. He wasn’t sure he deserved that kind of belief. </p><p> </p><p>He was saved from having to respond when Christina appeared around the edge of the curtain. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello, DI Carne,” she said. There was something different about her now, something changed. That desperate anger seemed now replaced with a determined fierceness, as if she was done taking other people’s crap and was ready to fight her fight alone, if need be. </p><p> </p><p>She looked at Emma and Craig. “I need to speak to him alone.”</p><p> </p><p>The couple nodded and left, leaving Elliott and Christina behind in a strange, tense silence. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t come up with the words. He was the one laying in a hospital bed, let it be up to her to make conversation. </p><p> </p><p>Christina interlaced her fingers and looked at him. The dark circles under her eyes made the bright blue stand out against her wan skin. She looked tired. More tired than even Elliott felt, that bone-deep tiredness that pinned him in place.</p><p> </p><p>Silence spilled out between them, like a thread unspooling. Time drew long, and longer still, in the silence until Elliott was over-aware of each one of his breaths, how heavy they seemed. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did you do this?” Christina asked quietly. Her eyes traced over his bandaged face, down his bruised jaw and across the rumpled hospital gown, before coming back to match his gaze.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott swallowed. He felt, suddenly, very exposed. </p><p> </p><p>“I had to stop him,” he said, words rasping out. It was as true as he felt he could get without giving anything else away. “I couldn’t let him escape with her again. Not when I could… I could try to stop it. I’m sorry to have put her in danger, with th-the van. There was no time to think of anything else.”</p><p> </p><p>Christina nodded, although it seemed more in acknowledgment that he had spoken than actual agreement with the words. It struck Elliott how similar she was to Ivy, in that respect. That fateful conversation with Ivy in her family’s study, her sharp gaze boring into him, that acknowledging nod—she had learned it from her mum, apparently. </p><p> </p><p>It struck him, then. For all these traces of other people that he might see in Ivy, it was her ghost he saw reflected in their movements, the way they spoke a fine mimic of her own, her smile hidden behind their lips. It would be all that was left, when she was gone. Despair tightened his throat. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When she dies…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Christina perched herself very lightly on the edge of Elliott’s hospital bed. Like this, she was at his height, and she seemed larger, more imposing. </p><p> </p><p>“Elliott,” she said slowly, and he felt his heart catch in his chest when she met his gaze this time. <em> “Why </em> did you do this?”</p><p> </p><p>For a long moment, neither said anything. </p><p> </p><p><em> It’s not possible, </em> Elliott thought. His hands suddenly felt cold, freezing. An encompassing, gut-wrenching fear held him still. <em> She can’t know. There’s no way…  </em></p><p> </p><p>If she knew, he was done. That was it—not just for his career, his reputation, but for everything that had been growing between him and Ivy. That delicate balance they had built between them—their real lives and the desire that surged between them—how precarious it seemed. One wrong step and it would shatter. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did you do this for my daughter?” Christina asked. She took a trembling breath, her hands twisting together. An errant tear rolled down her cheek, but she didn’t brush it away. "Why have you done <em> all </em> of this, for her?” Her voice cracked. <em> “Tell me.” </em></p><p> </p><p>It struck him then. She did know. All she was asking for was the truth, a confirmation of something she already knew. </p><p> </p><p>And Elliott found himself saying the words, though he hardly knew how he was forming them. They seemed to come from another part of himself, crawling from that deep well of despair that yawned open within him. If he said nothing, it threatened to consume him. Its depths were full of the horrible knowledge that all of this had been for nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was gone. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was <em> gone. </em> Probably dead. </p><p> </p><p>What did it matter, if he loved her?</p><p> </p><p>His face felt so numbed under the medication, tears refused to form. </p><p> </p><p>“You know why,” he replied. His hoarse voice was hardly over a whisper. </p><p> </p><p>Silence fell.</p><p> </p><p>Christina’s gaze slipped away from him for a moment. She didn’t say a word.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s heart dropped. </p><p> </p><p>He froze. Perhaps she hadn’t known, in which case he just… </p><p> </p><p>The pain medication dulled his responses, and the fear made his tongue clumsy as he tried to think of something to say. But there was nothing he could think of that could possibly mitigate this. Nothing at all. </p><p> </p><p>And then Christina reached out and took one of his hands in hers. Her palms were cool, her skin soft. Despite the strength of her grip, he could feel the vulnerability of her. She looked up at him. There was a sadness there, one that pierced his own heart, too. In this moment, at least, they understood each other. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ll get her back,” she said, her voice low but now eerily unshaken. She squeezed his hands once more before rising from the hospital bed. She brushed her hand across her face, wiping away the tears. “You’ll find her. I know you will. You <em> won’t </em> give up until you’ve found her. Do you understand, Elliott?”</p><p> </p><p>Her flame-bright blue gaze burned into him. “Do you understand?” she repeated. “You will find my daughter, Elliott. And you will bring her home.”</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t fathom a response before she turned and left him in a stunned, sickened silence. </p><p> </p><p>It was the worst thing she could have said to him. An admission of his feelings and an impossible hurdle to overcome. </p><p> </p><p>Because the facts were this: Ivy had disappeared for thirteen years before. No one had even found her—she had escaped. And now Christina was putting it all on him to find her again. </p><p> </p><p>If Ivy never returned, or died, it would now be on him. It would, irrefutably, be his fault this time. It would be proof to her family that he hadn’t tried hard enough, or loved her enough, to bring her back. What that said about their own love of her didn’t matter. They weren’t the ones on the execution stand this time. It was up to Elliott, now. </p><p> </p><p>And he was reminded of how easily love could be turned into a burden—or a garrote. </p><p> </p><p>Because he was certain he would fail. Ivy couldn’t be found. Not again.</p><p> </p><p>As he closed his eyes, Elliott suddenly thought of Ivy diving across the front seat toward the wheel, trying to drag the van away from crushing him. Even in a hopeless situation like hers, she had <em> tried </em>, hadn’t she? She had put her life on the line for him. </p><p> </p><p>And despite the burden, despite the almost-certain failure he faced, he knew that he could do her no less.</p><p> </p><p>A fierce, ridiculous sort of determination ignited in his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott hauled himself out of bed, signed out of hospital against the doctor’s orders, and got himself to the police station. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The police had found Mark White—his image, at least—on the Cabot Circus shopping centre security footage from before the meeting time. DC Pelham had forwarded Elliott the security footage as he hailed a cab to the station. </p><p> </p><p>Mark White’s stolen uniform cap and polo were perfectly fitted to him. He moved through the crowd without drawing attention to himself. He never made eye contact. He looked like any other worker, just there to empty the bins or sweep up the trash that accumulated at the edges of human activity. He had memorised the layout of the shopping centre. He walked up and down escalators, stairs, service hallways, all without hesitation. His movements were inconspicuous. Forgettable. Perfect.</p><p> </p><p>Mark White had a plan, that much was clear. </p><p> </p><p><em> No shit, </em> Elliott had thought. Mark White had had two weeks to plan this down to the finest detail. The police had less than twenty-four hours. </p><p> </p><p>What the plan was after that, though, was not clear. Where Mark White was planning on going with Ivy once he got her was not clear.</p><p> </p><p>When Elliott arrived at the situation, Burridge just looked at him and said, “You’re back. We need every man we’ve got. Get to work, Elliott,” before turning back to a debrief with one of the DCs. It was as clear a dismissal as he could expect at the moment. </p><p> </p><p>So, miracle of miracles, he hadn’t been thrown from the case. </p><p> </p><p>Lisa was sitting in her chair across from his, working on a thick stack of reports, when he dropped himself slowly into his chair. She startled, looking across at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott tried to not let it bother him. “Well, fuck you, too, I guess,” he joked. </p><p> </p><p>It was how they used to banter back and forth, but Lisa didn’t laugh this time. “I thought they said…” she trailed off. The flat line of her mouth made her look annoyed. </p><p> </p><p>“Said what?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nevermind,” she brushed him off. “Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>The nurses had changed his bandages before he had signed out of the hospital, although there was nothing they could do for the black eye that was forming under his right eye. He could hardly put any weight on the heavy boot he had to wear on his right leg. His ears still rang with a tinny aftersound, when he turned his head he had to turn his shoulders too or risk a screeching pain down his spine, and every inch of his body ached like it had barely survived being buried under an avalanche. </p><p> </p><p>“Best health of my life,” he replied shortly. “Any news on Mark White?”</p><p> </p><p>She raised an eyebrow as she picked up a case file and threw it onto his desk. </p><p> </p><p>Ah. Just like old times. Ivy being missing put them both on almost the same side again. </p><p> </p><p>“Found the van abandoned under the railway bridge on Albert Road. CCTV shows White and Ivy crossing the river on the footpath and getting into a Vauxhall Vectra on the other side, in a layby next to Bath Road, near Higham Street Green. Only got CCTV—”</p><p> </p><p>The name made him look up. “Higham Street Green?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa stopped short. “Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s south, isn’t it? Of—”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. South of Cabot Circus. The layby is used by some of the Temple Island construction workers, and their management team has had issues with vandalism, which is the only reason we’ve got any CCTV. White must have stashed the car there earlier. In any case, we’ve traced the van’s number plate and got nothing but a credit card under a different one of his aliases,” she said. “Total dead end. Jesse went to speak to the van rental service manager, but the man apparently has a bad memory for faces. Couldn’t tell us who had rented a van five minutes past, let alone last week.”</p><p> </p><p>“You went with him?” Elliott asked. He flipped open the file, ignoring the twinges that shot up his arm at the slight movement. “Asked him yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>A smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. “Even I couldn’t scare a different answer from him. Head like a block of wood.”</p><p> </p><p>“And the car?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa shook her head. “Nothing yet. We’re trying to track down the CCTV of the car when it got on the main road, but it’s taking time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Albert Road… that’s southeast, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. The bridge they crossed was right next to the Temple Island development. The crossing's a nightmare to navigate but he likely went south from there. Otherwise he'd be going straight past Cabot Circus again. We think he might be taking her out of the city, somewhere we don’t know anything about.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott shook his head. It didn’t make any sense. Mark White never left Bristol. According to his credit card history, he rarely even went south of the River Avon. Temple Island was south from Cabot Circus, close to Bedminster—in fact, it was just on the other side of Victoria Park. From there, both Bath and Wells Road led south out into the countryside, to nowhere.</p><p> </p><p>No, something about it didn’t seem right. Mark White had grown up here. Elliott would bet his badge that White had a local’s sense of disdain for the ‘new’ part of Bristol south of the river and a paranoid man's dislike of any changes to routine. </p><p> </p><p>“Any security tapes from the shopping centre?”</p><p> </p><p>“Research is reviewing them now, but not likely to give us anything we don’t already know. Cabot Circus management got back to us as well. Swore they had no idea how White had gotten the uniform, nor the keys for the service stairs and entrances.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Course they would,” Elliott muttered.</p><p> </p><p>“They employ about fifty workers at any given time, and the retention rate isn’t high. We’re looking at their past employees to see if we can dig something up, but since they haven’t changed the uniform in five years, I’d just as soon guess he stole it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or bought it.”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa made a considering noise. “A niche purchase. Wonder who’s selling that online?”</p><p> </p><p>“Some kind of pervert.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled slightly. She had obviously taken a bit of pity on him, smashed up as he appeared. Although their rapport was nothing close to what it had been before, at least they were talking. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as comforting as it seemed. Elliott sighed. “And Phoebe?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa’s face went blank. “No joy. Interviews are a bust.” </p><p> </p><p>“Robert won’t allow it?”</p><p> </p><p>“She won’t talk," Lisa replied, shaking her head. "Won’t say a word. We’ve tried everything, but we can’t force her. Not with what she’s just been through.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott bit his tongue. Phoebe was a child, yes, but her experience was a split second compared to what Ivy had dealt with for years—and there had been no talk about softening interviews for her. “Has there been a psych eval?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa shrugged. “Family counselor talked to her, and her father, but nothing official yet. Doesn’t matter who’s talking to her, though. She’s functionally mute, at the moment.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott considered this for a long moment. “Is she still here?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa seemed to catch his unspoken idea and her gaze sharpened. “You can’t talk to her.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So, that’s a yes. She’s here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“That a fact, like?” Elliott shot back. “Or just something you decided?”</p><p> </p><p>“A fact,” Lisa said firmly. “You can ask Burridge. Good luck there—half the DIs have asked for an interview, but not one has gotten through in eighteen hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was there for the second try,” Lisa said with a slight shrug. “Nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, not the first?” Elliott asked, unable to stop himself from making the jab. “Not teacher’s pet anymore?”</p><p> </p><p>Lisa didn't rise to the bait. “No, I was… busy.” She picked up her file and flipped one of the pages in a nervous gesture he recognised, but didn’t understand the source of. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Didn’t matter anyway. Same result as the first. Same as all the rest.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott tapped his fingers lightly on his desk, pretending he was thinking. Finally, after another moment, he asked, “And Ivy?”</p><p> </p><p>There was a split second pause before Lisa responded. “What about her?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re looking for her?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott caught an expression flitting across Lisa’s face, though he couldn’t tell what it was. Her tone held the same as before: calm, bordering on flat. “She’s with White. We find him, we find her.”</p><p> </p><p>He should have felt comforted by the words, but instead felt like there was a glaring omission—the police weren’t looking for Ivy, specifically. No matter that she had been kidnapped again. It didn’t do anything to erase the suspicions they had levelled against her. It didn’t make her a person worthy of interest, of finding. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t make her worthy of saving.</p><p> </p><p>An unexpected pang of hurt clenched in his chest at the thought. To them, she was nothing. If they saved her, she would be a byproduct of their investigation. Their real priority was Mark White.</p><p> </p><p>He thought he was over being disappointed by the police’s priorities. Unfortunately, it seemed he had still hoped. </p><p> </p><p>Well, if no one else was going to focus on Ivy, then he would. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott turned to the report in front of him, and started the work of trying to find someone who wouldn’t be found. </p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>“May I speak to her?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s eyes had been going fuzzy from staring at his computer screen for so long. He had read the reports of the incident at Cabot Circus with a strange sort of disinterest. They had reflected bare truths of the incident but none of the reality of it—no static burning in the headset, his heartbeat quicker than he had ever heard it, the terror of Ivy disappearing into the crowd. It could have been another Elliott Carne entirely they wrote about in the report for all he felt like it matched his memory of it.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered if this was how defendants felt in court, hearing the facts of their life spelled out in a way that was ‘true’ but held no truth for them. Just a strange shadow of a life that the prosecution service made up, not theirs at all. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, Elliott couldn’t take reading the case files or staring at his computer screen, trying to decipher the map of Bristol as if it would spill Ivy’s location like a treasure box, any longer. If Phoebe Tarl was here, she was their best shot. He wanted to speak to her. Or try to speak to her, as the case might be.</p><p> </p><p>Burridge slowly looked up from the case files he was reviewing. “Hm?”</p><p> </p><p>“Phoebe Tarl, sir. Can I speak with her?” Elliott repeated.</p><p> </p><p>Burridge put down the file and switched his full attention to Elliott. Leaning forward in the chair to rest his elbows on the desk, he gave Elliott a curious glance as he interlaced his fingers. “Why do you want to speak to her?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think she might know something. She might be able to tell us more about Mark White, or where he took her.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know she’s not speaking with anyone?”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“And yet you think you’ll be able to get her to speak?” Burridge said it in such a way that he neither denied nor confirmed that he thought Elliott capable of such a thing.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Elliott replied. Exhaustion made him truthful in a way that was unlikely to be to his benefit. “But I’d like to try.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>The slightest bit of irritation rankled him. “She’s our best shot, since we don’t have much else to go on, sir. Because of y—” he swallowed the words ‘your cock-up at Cabot Circus’, but just barely. <em> Yes, </em> he was angry at the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s handling of the hostage situation, and Burridge’s insistence on going through with a half-baked plan, but it would do him no good at this point to insult his Chief Superintendent <em> to his face. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Elliott cleared his throat. “Because of what happened at Cabot Circus.”</p><p> </p><p>Burridge’s eyes narrowed, as if he had still heard what Elliott hadn’t said, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>It struck Elliott of how tired Burridge looked, especially now. His usually crisp Oxford shirt was slightly rumpled and the half-Windsor knot of his tie had been yanked loose in some past bid for freedom. The furrows on his brow seemed deeper than they had before. </p><p> </p><p>Right from the beginning of this case, he had looked so perfectly put-together. Calm, even, in a way that no one else seemed to be. But if this case weighed heavily on Elliott’s shoulders because of his personal connection to it, it had to weigh heavily on Burridge on the professional side, too.  </p><p> </p><p>Because this whole case had been a media circus from the start—and the press didn’t even know yet that Ivy Moxam had been kidnapped again. Once that came out, it would be pure <em> chaos. </em> Absolute madness. Burridge’s name was at the top of the investigation and his face was all over the news with the updates he had provided the press room. If the case went badly, his reputation would be ground to the dust, along with Lisa and Elliott’s as the two lead detectives. </p><p> </p><p>Frankly, they were lucky it hadn’t already leaked. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve all fucked up,” Elliott said, a strangled huff of a laugh escaping. He hardly knew what he was saying. Perhaps he was just digging his own grave at this point, but he didn’t much care. Guilt was already sinking its claws into his heart, and desperation was soon to follow. They <em> had </em> to do whatever they could at this point to find Ivy. He felt it in his blood. “Really, we’ve fucked up. All of us: me, you, Lisa. I—w-we know this case better than anyone else and we’ve still made a massive, bloody cock-up of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Burridge’s expression tightened. </p><p> </p><p>“And so this—this girl, Phoebe Tarl. She’s the only real lead we have right now. She has information about Mark White, things about where he might’ve gone. Where he might be keeping Ivy. Even if its just the smallest thing she knows, we have to ask her. We have to <em> try </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“And what will you do when you find out where Ivy Moxam is being held?” Burridge asked. “You’ll be the one to ‘save’ her?”</p><p> </p><p>There was no mistaking the edge of judgment in Burridge’s voice, even as Elliott thought, <em> Yes. </em></p><p> </p><p>He set his jaw and resisted the urge to rub at his face, down into his beard. Burridge would read it as discomfort, maybe even guilt—even if he wasn’t sure of what crime, exactly. He was freed from having to respond when Burridge continued. </p><p> </p><p>“Elliott, you have been very close to this case since the beginning,” Burridge said, slowly. “Too close, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them after that pronouncement. It properly <em> begged </em> for an answer, or an excuse, an explanation— <em> something </em> in response. But Elliott was as trained as Burridge in the deliberate discomfort the police exploited of these long pauses in conversation, and resisted the urge to speak. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, Burridge realised Elliott wouldn’t seek to fill the silence. “Fine. You may speak to her—but you cannot force her to respond or offer evidence. You will not use any undue force when speaking to her. One of the counselors will be there the entire time. If I feel you are threatening her even slightly, I will end the interview there and then. You will tread <em> extremely </em> lightly, d’you understand?” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott thought of the past few weeks, the interviews they had done. It should have surprised him that Burridge thought him capable of that kind of behaviour, but at that point he was beyond what other people thought of him. He couldn’t figure what they thought and he didn’t much care. </p><p> </p><p>So, instead, he replied, “I understand, sir. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Phoebe was nothing like Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>Quiet and withdrawn—even before her abduction—she didn’t even acknowledge Elliott’s presence in the family room, let alone respond to his gentle questioning. No matter what he did, or said, she sat on the carpet at the low table, her bright head bent over her drawing. It was as if she didn’t even hear him.</p><p> </p><p>Her drawings weren’t particularly interesting, either. Just drawings of trees or low, flat brick houses that could have been any modern house in England. If not that, just random shapes that she coloured in, figures that looked like hopscotch squares, ladders or things that looked like rolling pins turned on their end. Once she finished a page, she put it aside neatly and took a new, blank page from the pile. </p><p> </p><p>Crayons and markers sat in trim rows in front of her, arranged by colour. This struck him as odd. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked over at Robert Tarl for the first time since he had come into the room. </p><p> </p><p>Robert didn’t realise he was being watched for a long moment. When he did, he slowly looked up at Elliott. The franticness that Elliott had once glimpsed there had gone, replaced by an uncertain contentedness. It was as if he wasn’t sure his good fortune would last.</p><p> </p><p>A ping of sympathy went through him at the image. Elliott thought of the man detained in the back seat of one of the police cars, defeated and frantic and angry, all at once. That man had been put to rest, for now. </p><p> </p><p>“Has she spoken to you?” Elliott asked.</p><p> </p><p>Robert shook his head, eyes sliding back to his daughter again, as if he couldn’t look away for too long. “No. She hasn’t said anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that normal?”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Does she… not speak much?” </p><p> </p><p>“What kind of question is that?” Robert asked, frowning. </p><p> </p><p>“A question about your daughter’s usual habits, Mr Tarl.” Elliott wasn’t willing to be pushed around by someone. He remembered Burridge’s words. <em> Lightly. </em> He softened his words. “This is just to establish a baseline.”</p><p> </p><p>Robert set his jaw and kept Elliott's gaze, even as he reached out to put his hand on his daughter's shoulder. The girl flinched slightly and curled into her drawing. Robert jerked his hand back.</p><p> </p><p>"She's... she's always been quiet," he said. He folded his hand into his lap, and covered it with his left, as if it had done something bad. "Ever since her mum died, she's been quiet. Always reading or drawing."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott thought of Ivy as a child—all the reports were that she was a chatterbox, very social, hardly shy at all. She seemed a complete opposite to the girl who sat in front of them now.</p><p> </p><p>"What're you drawing?" Elliott asked, leaning in toward the paper in front of Phoebe.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment it was almost as if she didn't hear him. She continued on drawing without looking up.</p><p> </p><p>"Can I see?" he asked.</p><p> </p><p>Her marker slowed on the page as her hands curled up. She didn't move. She seemed frozen in place.</p><p> </p><p>"Phoebe, love, can you show him your drawing?" Robert asked in a gentle voice as he leaned down toward his daughter. "He's interested to see."</p><p> </p><p>Phoebe hesitated a moment longer before sliding the drawing in Elliott's direction. He gently spun it on the tabletop, righting it. It was a simple house on the green, black iron fence cutting in front. A flowerpot dangled precariously on a windowsill. Leaning up against the brick side was a big green bicycle and a smaller, yellow bicycle, with pink ribbons on the handles.</p><p> </p><p>"It's lovely," Elliott murmured, not sure what to say.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't have any siblings, nor friends, with children so he didn't quite know how to interact with them.</p><p> </p><p><em> What the fuck did I get myself involved in? </em> Elliott thought. If he couldn't interact with kids, why had he asked to see her?</p><p> </p><p>"Where's this?" Elliott asked.</p><p> </p><p>Phoebe tilted her head down. Her lips moved as if she were trying to form words, but nothing came out.</p><p> </p><p>Robert cleared his throat. "It looks like our house, don't it? With the flowers here—" he indicated the flowerpot, "and we have bicycles just like that, don't we?"</p><p> </p><p>Phoebe jerked her chin up and down, but it was enough of a confirmation for Elliott.</p><p> </p><p>An idea struck him.</p><p> </p><p>"Phoebe, do you think... do you remember what the place Mark White took you to looked like? Do you think you could draw it for us?"</p><p> </p><p>She froze, then shook her head. She kept her eyes downcast.</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> "What about... did you ever see out of a window, while you were there? Maybe just trees, or other houses? Telephone towers?"</p><p> </p><p>Phoebe didn't react for a moment. Then she nodded again, just slightly, without looking up.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott made himself not visibly react. He couldn't risk it, not now. Something like hope sung sharply in his veins, an electrical current just on this side of pleasure. "Could you draw that for us? What you remember?"</p><p> </p><p>For a long, long moment silence stretched in the family room. Robert, too, seemed to be holding himself still.</p><p> </p><p>Then, reaching out with her little hand, Phoebe pulled a blank sheet of paper toward her and began to draw. And Elliott felt his heartbeat pick up.</p><p> </p><p>He forced himself to remain still, to push down on the hope that was threatening to expand in his chest. It wasn't anything, yet. It might not be anything anyway. If she just drew some trees or another squat brick house, a hill... it could be anywhere in Bristol. Anywhere in England. Anywhere in the <em> world. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Elliott closed his eyes, breathing in quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy was still out there. Mark White was still out there, somewhere. They needed every bit of help they could get, even if it was just a child's drawing—anything, at this point, would help. He knew better than to put the pressure on Phoebe that a woman's life depended, in part, on her. If the pressure of that statement was almost too much for Ivy, a grown woman, it would surely crush a small girl.</p><p> </p><p>And Elliott, for the second time in less than a week, prayed in a way he hadn't believed in for more than twenty years. Before, he had prayed that Ivy didn't know who Dylan Hawthorne was, that she had been kept ignorant of Mark White's half-brother. He knew that had turned out badly, but again he found himself searching for the familiar words.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dear Saint Anthony in Heaven, saint of all lost things and wayward children, we come to you in our hour of need…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He didn't know if what he felt was belief or something more cynical, more desperate than that. Because he <em> knew </em> that wasn't how it worked. Either Phoebe knew something, or she didn't. The view was either distinct, or it wasn't.</p><p> </p><p>But it soothed some of the seething anxiety that crawled beneath his skin to even pretend, for a second. Belief both gave him control, and took control from him, for the way the events of the world played out. If he believed and things turned out well—he was the cause. If he believed and things turned out badly—no one had listened to his prayers. Without this, the possibilities of chance spiraled away from him like flotsam and jetsam disappearing into the depths of Charybdis, far too fast and deep to catch before it got dragged to the bottom of the ocean.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott opened his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>It was difficult to decipher Phoebe's drawing from across the table, half-blocked by her arm and upside-down to boot. For a moment, all he could see were rolling green hills and the curly edges of trees—what looked like oak trees. Trees that were everywhere over this side of England. His heart dropped.</p><p> </p><p>It was <em> nothing. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Ivy was out there and they had nothing on her but the bare trace of her footsteps twelve hours past. A common car amongst thousands of others on a busy road, which branched out into hundreds of other side streets, millions of possible houses or flats Mark White could have bought or broken into or leased. They could so easily be hiding in plain sight: a nondescript man and his nondescript house, nothing suspicious about it.</p><p> </p><p>Once Ivy went behind that door, her family would have nothing else for another thirteen years. <em> Nothing </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Mark White had done it before. The police had gotten no closer to finding him in the thirteen years that had elapsed since Ivy's abduction, and though Ivy had helped them understand his past, she hadn't been able to illuminate where he had taken Phoebe. He could do it all over again so easily.</p><p> </p><p>Despair yawned open in Elliott's heart, threatening his breath. </p><p> </p><p>Phoebe capped her blue marker and set it back in the neat row at the top of her drawing. Her small hands grasped at the edges of the paper, crumpling the drawing slightly.</p><p> </p><p>She turned and set the drawing in front of Elliott.</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you," he murmured, drawing it closer with one fingertip.</p><p> </p><p>Green rolling hills rose through the center of the drawing, bounded on either side by curling oak trees. The sun broke over a soft horizon. And there, rising through it, was—Elliott frowned. It looked almost like a lamppost, but it was huge, towering over the landscape. Thick bands wrapped around an inner cylinder, making the whole thing look like a rolling pin turned on its side and stuck into the ground.</p><p> </p><p>What looked like <em> that </em> in Bristol? He swore he had seen it somewhere before, but couldn't quite place it.</p><p> </p><p>Robert was frowning at the drawing from across the table. "That's... hm."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked up. "It's what?"</p><p> </p><p>Robert shook his head. "That looks like—well. Looks like the hills behind Phoebe's school, honestly. One time last year, her teachers took the class to the park across the street and all of the students were supposed to draw what they saw. It looks almost exactly like that," he said, pointing at the landscape.</p><p> </p><p>"And where's your daughter's school again?"</p><p> </p><p>"Stoke Park Primary School," Robert said. "On Romney Avenue, near Purdown. It’s in—"</p><p> </p><p>A thought struck Elliott. The map of Mark White's credit card purchases, that strange, dead area all around the north-east corner near the expressway where he had made a spate of purchases a year ago, but not since. It was in—</p><p> </p><p>"Lockleaze," he said, just as Robert said the same. Elliott jabbed a finger at the drawing. He recognized it, now. There was no other tower in the area that looked like that. He was a second away from sliding to his knees and thanking Phoebe. “What does this look like?”</p><p> </p><p>Robert tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the drawing. After a moment’s consideration, he said, "It’s BT Tower, innit? Up on that hill, there in Lockleaze. You can't really see it from the road—just the top—but maybe if you went down one of the lanes. There's a couple of side streets that branch off Romney. Er, Mulber-Mul<em> ready </em> Close. Hayten Gardens, I think, or something like that?"</p><p> </p><p>It made sense. The credit card purchases at the shops in the area. Why Mark White had decided to snatch up Phoebe Tarl—it wasn’t nearly as random as it seemed, as her school was right down the road. How easily he had been able to hide his car, since those narrow lanes wound in circles, dead-ends, leaving plenty of hiding places.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott pulled out his phone and brought up a map of Bristol. BT Tower was a small dot on a slim strip of green, the M32 on one side and Romney Avenue drawing a line down the other. The space that marked the Stoke Park Estate flanked Purdown, a swathe of grey on the map that Elliott knew was a huge public green. There were no other streets nearby. If Phoebe had been kept near there and had a clear view of BT Tower, it had to have been on one of the little closes or gardens nearby. Really, there were only one or two streets that fit the bill.</p><p> </p><p>His heartbeat leapt. They would find her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ivy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It took Robert speaking to remind Elliott he wasn't alone.</p><p> </p><p>"You alright?" Robert asked.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott jerked and looked up. "Y-yes. Thank you," he rushed out, standing with a scrape of his chair. In one hand he held his phone, staring at the streets that backed onto Purdown, and in the other he grasped Phoebe's drawing tightly. "Thank you."</p><p> </p><p>They had a lead. <em> They had a lead. </em></p><p> </p><p>He left without looking back.</p><p> </p><p>Burridge caught his shoulder as he hurried out the family room. "Elliott. Good work in there." He put out one hand for the drawing and Elliott handed it over with a slight hesitation.</p><p> </p><p>It felt like the one lifeline he had gotten this whole case, and he was loathe to let it go. But he knew the picture had told him all it could for now, and the rest was up to him—and the constabulary.</p><p> </p><p>Burridge held the page up to the light, frowning.</p><p> </p><p>"I think she's in Lockleaze, sir," he said, even though Burridge had almost certainly been listening to the interrogation. "One of the houses that backs up to Purdown, BT Tower. Has to be one of the streets off Romney Avenue, one of those little closes."</p><p> </p><p>Making a considering noise, Burridge let his hand fall. He was still staring at the drawing. "We'll send a patrol out there, scan the area. The chopper is still out. Maybe they'll find something."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott, however, couldn't wait for officers to go out and report back. There were dozens of houses in that area, even narrowed down as it was. If they went door-to-door, it would take ages. And if they spooked White, he’d bolt and this fragile lead would collapse. They had to be able to find something more solid.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa was still leaning over a case file when he hurried into the bullpen, hobbled slightly by his broken foot. As he hurried by, she looked up.</p><p> </p><p>"What happened?" she asked.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott was surprised by the note of concern in her voice. "Spoke to Phoebe," he said, sparing her no more attention. He sat heavily down in his chair and brought up the map of Bristol. </p><p> </p><p>He zoomed in on the Lockleaze area. There were really only three streets nearby that fit the bill—the back row of Haydon Gardens and its little offshoot, Fairacre Close, and the next lane over, Gilray Close. He dropped down to the last in street view.</p><p> </p><p>At the end of the close sat a block of flats, together in a beige-brown building. It almost fit the bill, but the flats seemed too close together. Some of the doors were right next to each other, and though there were fences sat between the properties, they would hardly come up to one's hip. </p><p> </p><p>No, it didn't work. Not nearly enough privacy—not for what Mark White needed the space for. The walls had to be thin as paper. One scream would wake up the neighbours.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott clicked over to the next street—the back row of Haydon Gardens were semi-detached homes, some sharing a gable wall but not close enough together to be considered row houses. If they were assuming that Mark White owned the property outright where he had held Ivy and Phoebe—two, at least—any of these houses would be a little out of his price range. Plus, they were too exposed.</p><p> </p><p>Down Fairacre Close was a housing development, a line of brick terrace houses, each with their own little garage space out front. Elliott frowned, zooming in. It would be very easy to link a car with its house, sitting right outside it, as it were. But each entryway was blocked by a full-height brick wall. When a car was parked out front, the front door would be almost completely obscured.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed a perfect spot for Mark White's needs. A private entryway, thick brick walls dividing one from then next house over, the house itself backing onto a green. At the end of a close, so there would be no through traffic.</p><p> </p><p>It was <em> perfect. </em></p><p> </p><p>Elliott looked up. "Lisa," he started, before he realised she was standing right next to him, arms crossed over her chest, looking at his computer screen, too. Her gaze slid from the screen to him. "Do you have access to the Lockleaze council taxes list? We need the names of the owners of houses on Fairacre Close. I think—" the words dried up in his throat.</p><p> </p><p>It felt almost like bad luck to say the words, like those old superstitions that said to speak a wish aloud would ensure it never turned true. And though Elliott thought he was beyond those things, it was hard to shake the illogical sense that he was about to ruin everything by speaking it aloud. But he had no choice. They were racing against the clock here, and were on the losing side of impossible odds. </p><p> </p><p>Every second he wasted on this fear was one Ivy was being forced to endure with Mark White.</p><p> </p><p>Forced to survive. And there was no guarantee that she would.</p><p> </p><p>Elliott swallowed his fear and shoved back the pressure that threatened to overwhelm him. They had to finish this. "I think that's where White is hiding Ivy. And where he hid Phoebe."</p><p> </p><p>"Are you sure?" she asked quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Lisa's expression was very steady, very calm. Rather than feel rebuffed by this near-indifference, as he so often had during this case, he allowed himself to be soothed by it. They could do this.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay." Lisa spun around and went back to her chair. She tapped a few keys on her computer. "You said Lockleaze, right?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yep." Elliott forced himself out of the chair and over to Lisa's side this time. It was difficult for him to stand, so he allowed himself to half-lean on the desk, watching as Lisa brought up the council tax records of the last decade. "Fairacre Close."</p><p> </p><p>Lisa nodded sightly and typed in the name of the road. "Okay, so... Miller, Christopher... Heinrichs, Peter... Pritchard, Esther... Roznowsky, Norman... Davis, Leonard... Griffiths, El—"</p><p> </p><p>"Wait, go back. Leonard Davis? Are there any other Leonards on the list?"</p><p> </p><p>Lisa looked quickly over the list. "No, no others. No Marks, Dylans, Whites or Hawthorns, either. Do you think that's him?"</p><p> </p><p>Elliott could feel his heart starting to race, that desperation that had been clawing at him ever since he had woken up in the hospital—no, since he had last kissed Ivy, barely more than 24 hours ago. It seemed like such a long time ago, and no time at all, really.</p><p> </p><p>"That's what Ivy called him, right? Leonard?" he asked, although he already knew. He tried to think. "Leonard and Davis..." Something about the name seemed familiar, almost, though he couldn't catch why.</p><p> </p><p>"Could just be another Leonard, Elliott. And Davis is a common surname, especially here."</p><p> </p><p>"No, it's..." Elliott shook his head. He had heard the name recently, he was sure. "Something about it... something about White's family, I think. What's Dylan's full name?"</p><p> </p><p>Lisa dutifully brought up the case notes, and flicked through them quickly. "Dylan... Anthony Hawthorn. Father: Thomas Edwin Hawthorn. No Leonard."</p><p> </p><p>Rubbing a hand across his face, Elliott forced himself to focus. The pain meds they had given him had mostly worn off by this point so he was battling a growing headache. He knew if he took more he'd be knocked flat out, unable to help. "Wait. Carol White had Mark... she remarried and had Dylan. She didn't change her name again, but Dylan was named after <em> his </em> father. Which is why he and Mark have different surnames. But White was the name of her first husband, right? What was his name? And her maiden name?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol White's last driver's license photograph appeared on the screen, along with a copy of her marriage certificates they had gotten from the County Registrar. "Carol Anne White..." Lisa read, slowly, "née Davis. Married to George <em> Leonard </em>White in 1969."</p><p> </p><p>She looked up at him, eyes wide. It was thready, but Elliott knew they were thinking the same thing. Even if it barely fit together, it <em> fit </em> in a way nothing else had the past twenty-four hours had. The past two weeks, really. In this case, it had to be enough.</p><p> </p><p>This time, though, it was Lisa who put the brakes on the leap.</p><p> </p><p>"Let me just check the driver's license database, see if I can find a Leonard Davis at 25 Fairacre Close. If not," she said, sharing a significant look with Elliott, "we can bring it to Burridge." Before he could get a protest out, she continued, "It seems right to me, too, Elliott, but we <em> cannot </em> barge into what might be an eighty-year-old man's house because he shares an incredibly common name with our suspect. We have to confirm. At least that."</p><p> </p><p>Elliott bit down on a protest, but just barely. They shouldn't wait. They should just go. <em> Go </em>. Right now.</p><p> </p><p>He knew the impulse was bad, was what made people distrust the police—and for good reason—but the thought of Ivy, alone there with Mark White... how could they wait? What if she was hurt? Or dying, right now?</p><p> </p><p>They were so close. So incredibly, <em> incredibly </em> close. They had to <em> go. </em></p><p> </p><p>It felt like ants were crawling under Elliott's skin, he could hardly remain still. His chest hurt, maybe with the whiplash from the car crash, or from how his heart clenched at this small strand of hope.</p><p> </p><p>He could find her. <em> Fuck. </em> He needed to find her.</p><p> </p><p>He thought of Ivy sitting next to him in the car last night. Shadows blending across her face, catching at the slope of her eyes, the curve of her lip. How it had swallowed up her features in darkness. At the time, it had felt strangely safe. Free. They didn't have anyone watching them in the dark, and he could kiss her without thinking of anything else.</p><p> </p><p>It had been what he wanted, but now he wasn't so sure. What if he had missed something—something else she hadn't been able to ask him? Something that would keep her with Mark White?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "What if I don't belong here, anymore?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The memory of her words cut him off at the knees, just as it had the first time. That same hopeless note to her voice, her expression hidden by the dark. He closed his eyes, sliding a hand down his face to press over his mouth. The memory of Ivy's lips against his felt like it was fading already, that desperation dissipating like mist off the river.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “There’s no place for me here. Not anymore.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But she was wrong about that.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy had a place here. Her family was looking for her, and her friends, too. People whose lives had shattered the first time she had been taken were all out there, looking for her again. Two weeks was a split second compared to those thirteen years of adjusting to her absence. Of course it was going to take time to settle down again. It wasn't always going to be like this.</p><p> </p><p>Her place wasn't with Mark White. It never had been. Elliott should have said as much last night, but he could hardly speak at the time. </p><p> </p><p>What if she thought they wouldn't come for her?</p><p> </p><p><em> I’m coming for you, Ivy, </em> he thought. <em> Just hold on a little longer. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Lisa's hand on his arm startled Elliott. She was watching him with an expression that, for a moment, almost seemed understanding.</p><p> </p><p>"You really… care about her," she said quietly.</p><p> </p><p>That slight hitch—the pause before the word 'care'— was all he needed to hear, to understand: Lisa knew. The funny thing was, the thought didn't terrify him as much as it had not two days past.</p><p> </p><p>Mutely, he nodded. He tried to take comfort in Lisa’s friendly squeeze of his arm, but the touch felt impossibly distant. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy had been right about punishing Robert Tarl. Any punishment the police could think of wouldn't be worse than what he already felt—what Elliott felt now. </p><p> </p><p>Just knowing he had gotten involved with one of the victims during the course of the investigation would be grounds enough for a dismissal, not counting half the other things he had done this week—all or most of them against direct orders. No matter how this finished, he had made an incredible mess of things. And he was tired, <em> so </em> bloody exhausted, of having to fight for every centimetre of ground he had gained in this case. </p><p> </p><p>The realisation came so simply to Elliott, then, it seemed like he had known it this entire time. Everything that had happened the last two weeks—perhaps even the last five years—had all been leading up to this. Calm settled about his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm quitting the police force, Lisa,” he said. “This is my last case.”</p><p> </p><p>Surprise flashed across her face. He waited for the inevitable questions, or arguments. Instead, at length, she nodded before looking away. He caught, out of the corner of his eye, the quick tightening of her jaw and a visible swallow, but she didn’t try to dissuade him. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t know whether to take it as proof that their relationship was so irreparably damaged Lisa didn’t want to try, or that she finally understood him. Despite how little faith he had left, he hoped it was the latter.</p><p> </p><p>“I have the results: no Leonard Davis at Fairacre Close,” she said, and her voice was as calm as ever. She turned back to him, her gaze steady. “Let’s inform Burridge, and then we can go. I’ll drive, this time.”</p><p> </p><p>The corner of her lips quirked up. </p><p> </p><p>A bolt of gratitude shot through Elliott’s chest. It was a joke at his expense, he knew, but even if he couldn’t quite smile, it didn’t feel mean. Perhaps it was his lingering concussion, or just proof of how tired he was, but he felt the beginnings of tears burn at his eyes. His throat hurt as he cleared it. </p><p> </p><p>There were many things he wanted to say to Lisa. They had been partners for years now, and had gone through good and bad times together, weathering so many storms with the other by their side. Despite how much this case had damaged that, possibly beyond repair, it had still meant something to Elliott at the time. </p><p> </p><p>But in the end, all he could say was, “Thank you,” and hope that she understood the rest.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>Burridge agreed with Elliott and Lisa’s findings, especially when reports from the unmarked police cars brought back confirmation of a Vauxhall Vectra pulled in at 25 Fairacre Close. Its number plate had been partially obscured by a car cover so it wasn’t possible to confirm beyond a doubt. The police officer who had walked by hadn’t wanted to risk inspecting it further, but it matched the color and age of the car Mark White had last been seen driving, Ivy in the passenger seat. </p><p> </p><p>That, and the information Elliott and Lisa had dug up, was enough to convince Burridge it was a solid lead.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go get her,” he said. He looked exhausted, but resolved. “Let’s bring Ivy home.”</p><p> </p><p>Everything happened quickly after that. </p><p> </p><p>One moment they were walking back into the bullpen and the next DC Conroy was giving them a nod, confirming with the magistrate’s office that the necessary warrants had been approved. As Elliott and Lisa hurried to the squad pool to snag a car, they could hear Burridge ordering the Authorised Firearms Officers and emergency teams into place in the area. </p><p> </p><p>The whole constabulary seemed to burst into action, officers rushing back and forth, voices barking down telephones and the room filling with the frantic energy that marked the end of a case. Though it was still tense and anticipatory, there was an excited edge to it, too. A feeling that they were close to the end. </p><p> </p><p>By contrast, it was almost completely silent outside when Elliott and Lisa made their way down to the parking lot. The dawn was barely lightening the sky and a chill still stung Elliott’s cheeks as they walked. Hardly anyone was about at 6AM on a Saturday in Bristol city centre, it seemed. But rather than peaceful, the whole place felt nearly like a ghost town. </p><p> </p><p>Though it had felt like ages longer, in reality it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Ivy had been taken for the second time. Revelations and disasters had stretched the time longer than warranted. </p><p> </p><p>Yesterday morning, she had been in the police station with him, getting ready for the meetup at Cabot Circus. </p><p> </p><p>A few hours before that, her fingers had been digging into his collar and her mouth had been hot on his as they had both searched for some kind of reassurance in each other’s touch. He had felt desperate then, but it was nothing compared to now. </p><p> </p><p>Nerves scraped under Elliott’s skin as he got into the passenger seat of the unmarked police car. His heart felt like it was moments away from beating out of his chest, and there was a strange, bitter taste at the back of his throat that he had only ever tasted when terror had made a home of his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>They were so close to the end of this. But it felt like less like coming up to the finish line than it did teetering at the edge of a great precipice, that sharp edge still so ready to cut him. They weren’t done, not quite yet. The worst could still happen. This is where he had always failed before—right at the end, when everything seemed resolved. </p><p> </p><p>Not until he could see Ivy with his own eyes, and hold her close, could he let this terror go. </p><p> </p><p>They raced through the streets of Bristol. There were marked and unmarked police cars heading the same way, but Lisa drove as she always did—like she was on the run from the police, rather than driving as one of them. As he watched the buildings blur past, Elliott could only think nonsensically of how Lisa had always poked fun at the way he drove, saying her nan could have gotten them to their destination in half the time. It was why he always drove when they went to cases. He had always joked back they needed to arrive <em> alive </em> at their destination. The memory should have made him smile, but he could no longer tell if it was funny or not. </p><p> </p><p>A strange film seemed to have descended over everything, drawing colors sharper than usual, every sound turning into a resounding <em> slam </em> or sharp <em> crack. </em> He felt like he could see every detail of the interior of the car in high definition, though he felt, too, like it was hardly him in the passenger seat. His body was there, but he felt far removed from it all. </p><p> </p><p>He searched desperately for something to ground him. </p><p> </p><p><em> Ivy. </em> </p><p> </p><p>For a long, breathless second, Elliott couldn’t even imagine her face. Then it came out of the blankness terror had washed over everything: that thread that unwound between them that first day, the soft light clouding around her body as he handed over his card—fate, he had thought it, as their hands had touched. Perhaps it was more apt than he knew. Funny, though, that he should have thought it meant anything good. </p><p> </p><p>Hadn’t he thought she looked like an angel, with the silver light spilling over her shoulders? Or, with her hazel eyes turned up to his the only thing solid about her, a ghost? Neither were meant to remain here.  </p><p> </p><p>Fate, as he should have known, was rarely anything but cruel.  </p><p> </p><p>It was only fifteen minutes or less from the Avon and Somerset Constabulary in the city centre to Lockleaze. Lisa made it in ten and it still felt like too long. Purdown BT Tower grew larger as they drew closer, starting big as a matchstick in the distance until it loomed over the green hills. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott’s fear notched higher. They were close. </p><p> </p><p>A burst of static came out of the car’s police radio, an official-sounding voice speaking too quickly for Elliott to distinguish. Lisa swore under her breath as she turned down a long residential street packed with semi-detached houses. Windows flashed by them as she slammed on the accelerator. </p><p> </p><p>It took Elliott a moment to realise what was wrong. As the pastel fronts of the older houses faded into brick council houses and Purdown BT Tower grew too large for him to see the top of it through the windshield, something else appeared on the horizon: smoke. Thick, curling clouds of black-grey smoke billowed into the sky. </p><p> </p><p>He finally seemed to be able to speak again, if barely. “Lisa, up ahead!” </p><p> </p><p>“I know, I see it!” she snapped back. She reached out for the handset of the radio and spoke rapidly into it. </p><p> </p><p>They had no way of knowing if it had anything to do with Ivy, but what else could it be? Everything that could go wrong with this case had already gone wrong. If Elliott could make a sound, he’d laugh. Why not this, too?</p><p> </p><p>Lisa cut across oncoming traffic and down a small lane. The fire was clearly  in the neighbourhood behind the main road, where Fairacre Close jutted off the side of the circular lane of Haydon Gardens. The smoke ahead had grown so thick it mostly obscured Purdown BT Tower, and turned the silvery blue clouds a sickly yellow behind it. </p><p> </p><p>“The fire brigade is already on their way,” Lisa said, smacking the radio handset back in its cradle. “Less than three minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>It should have felt like a reassurance, and he was sure it was intended as one, but it still felt like <em> too long. </em> Too far away. </p><p> </p><p>At the green sitting in the circle of Haydon Gardens Lisa swung a hard left toward Fairacre Close, then swore and slammed on the brakes. Elliott jerked forward in his seat, before he was caught and yanked back by his seatbelt. Whiplash seared up his spine. </p><p> </p><p>But what he saw was worse. Orange flames were already licking out of the top floor of the last house at the end of the lane. </p><p> </p><p>“Go!” he roared, pointing down the lane at the house. “Get closer!” </p><p> </p><p>“What, are you mad?” Lisa yelled back. “We have to wait for fire and rescue!” </p><p> </p><p>Elliott didn’t wait. He had just unbuckled his seatbelt and shoved open the passenger side door when the explosion struck. It was like hearing Bonfire Night fireworks being set off, except they were standing right next to the launch site. The car rocked back on its bearings and Elliott was thrown back in his seat. </p><p> </p><p>An ear-splitting <em> BOOM </em>blew out the windows of the house, sending glass and metal window frames flying into the road. Fire roared out of the open windows, eagerly following the new source of oxygen, until bright orange and white flames crawled up the sides of the house.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Elliott blinked and shook his head. His ears were ringing, so loudly he could barely hear Lisa next to him. A new cloud of black-grey smoke obscured the road ahead for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>For a second he thought he wasn’t seeing things right. He shoved open the door again and yanked himself out of the car. Pain surged up his leg as he walked, and then ran, as well as he could down the road.  </p><p> </p><p>Because ahead, a small, familiar figure was stumbling from the smoke. Her dark hair billowed around her shoulders. There was dried blood all down one side of her face and she was walking with a limp, one arm cradled against her chest. But Ivy was alive. She was <em> alive. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Elliott called her name with whatever voice he had left. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy looked up, blinking slowly. It seemed to take her a second to realise who he was. </p><p> </p><p>And then relief spread across her expression. Her lips trembled around a soundless word, before he was close enough to hear her say his name in return, and then she was in his arms. </p><p> </p><p>He pressed his face into her hair, cradling the back of her head. He hardly had any idea of what he was saying—prayers or thanks or just her name, again and again. But the truth came, too, tumbling out of him as easily as breathing. <em> Love. I love you. I came for you. </em>He could feel her tremble against him as he spoke the words. </p><p> </p><p>Mindful of her leg and the blood on her face, he held her as softly and carefully as he could. </p><p> </p><p>As before, though, Ivy had no such compunction. She wrapped her arms around his chest, her fingers digging into his back. He could feel her breath across his throat as she murmured the words back to him—<em> I love you, Elliott. I love you </em>—and the hot brush of her tears slid down his skin. Relief overtook him. Then she pressed herself even closer, and they said no more.</p><p> </p><p>For a long moment they stood there in the lane, as the sirens drew closer and smoke clouded the sky, heedless of anything else. </p><p> </p><p>All of the fear that had choked him earlier seemed gone, replaced by a sharp, deep relief. It seemed impossible that she had survived. Not only survived—that she loved him, too. </p><p> </p><p>He pressed his face to her hair, breathing in the scent of her—vanilla, smoke, the iron tang of blood, the salt of her skin. This was real. There was no denying this. The heaving, swaying mass of her was real. He was real. The heartbeat that surged up his throat, the throb of the explosion in his ears—real. Only this. </p><p> </p><p>Then police squad cars swung up the lane behind them, their sirens so loud in the compressed space. The lights flashed through the dim, smoky air. The fire brigade would be right on their heels. Moments from now, they’d be surrounded. That, too, was real. </p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly, Elliott pulled away.</p><p> </p><p>Ivy’s hands were tightly wrapped in his jacket. She looked dazed, tilting very slightly from side to side. Blood from her head wound had matted her dark hair against her temple. The lights made her features flash bright, dark, blue, red, white—sharp across the haze of the smoke. </p><p> </p><p>Elliott grasped her face. He tried to think of what to say but had no words left. It was over. </p><p> </p><p>Ivy blinked, her gaze focussing slowly in on him. Dark bruises were forming under one bright eye. </p><p> </p><p>“Elliott,” she murmured, words falling from her lips as if she had no control of them. As if she couldn’t stop herself from saying them. Later, the doctors would conclude she had been concussed from blunt force trauma sustained during her recapture. At the time, it seemed like she spoke from some impossible space deep within herself—voicing a truth he couldn’t quite grasp. “I told him you’d… you’d come.”</p><p> </p><p>He tried to respond but couldn’t make himself speak.</p><p> </p><p>“And you did,” Ivy continued, her voice just barely perceptible above the blare of the sirens and the roar of the fire behind her. A tear streaked down her dirty cheek from her unblackened eye, drawing a clear line through the ash and blood. “You came.”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott nodded. Light swum around them, a million colours and intensities. The harsh blue-red flicker of emergency signals. Writhing orange-grey flames at her back. Headlights painting her in stark black-and-white. The yellow dawn softening the sky above them. </p><p> </p><p>He felt struck by the same dizziness he had felt when first they had stood in her doorway, though his throat was dry, his lungs now full of smoke. Once again he was off kilter, completely disoriented.</p><p> </p><p>They were on the cusp of something, once again on a knife’s point. </p><p> </p><p>It was over. </p><p> </p><p>She had survived. </p><p> </p><p>Behind lay the remains of this case—her past with Mark White, his career as a detective—and in front was an exciting, terrifying nothingness. </p><p> </p><p>And in front of this infinite potential for growth, for pain, words failed him. </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing he could say that could match the intensity of the occasion. There was no rulebook to follow. All Elliott could do was brush his thumb across the tears on Ivy’s cheek, trying to impart some sense of comfort or make a small space for them in this chaos. </p><p> </p><p>And before he could figure out the words, quick footsteps sounded up the pavement toward them. Hands pulled him away from Ivy. Emergency medical personnel in their hi-vis jackets descended on her. A paramedic he didn’t recognise bundled him back from the rising smoke, saying something he couldn’t understand or asking him questions he couldn’t answer. Fire engines screamed by them all, blaring their horns. </p><p> </p><p>Lights were flicking on in neighbouring windows. A few curious people were starting to emerge from their houses on either side of the lane. The world was waking up to a sense that everything was fundamentally different. Chaos had swallowed the past up. </p><p> </p><p>And he could no longer see Ivy. </p><p> </p><p>The hands on his shoulders pushed him to sit on the side of the pavement, out of the way of the action. Light swum around him. People moved by in distant shadows. Time stretched out long, unspooling seconds like silken ribbon slipping through outstretched fingers—slow, then fast, faster until it slipped free completely. Even after the paramedic had determined him not in need of immediate treatment, shock had made his hands icy cold. The rest of his body felt strangely numb. </p><p> </p><p>He had no idea how long he had been sitting on the pavement, unable to move, when a familiar form emerged from the haze and sat next to him.  </p><p> </p><p>"What're you going to do?" Lisa asked, eventually. </p><p> </p><p>It took considerable effort for Elliott to turn his head to look over at her. "What d’you mean?” he murmured.</p><p> </p><p>“When she doesn't need you to save her anymore,” Lisa clarified. Her gaze flicked to where Ivy was being lifted into the back of an ambulance by paramedics, and back to him. “When she doesn’t need a knight in shining armor, what are you going to do?” </p><p> </p><p>Her voice was serious, soft. For a moment, it almost seemed like she was concerned for him. “What else are you going to lose for her?”</p><p> </p><p>Elliott had no answer. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Everything. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nothing. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>What had Detective Superintendent Winters said, at the beginning of this? "A case like this—it's the kind you look up from a year on and you’ve lost everything else." </p><p> </p><p>It seemed impossibly true now. Helping Ivy escape or die trying had been his only plan from the beginning. He had lost everything that had defined his life before: friends, his job, his faith in the institutions he had spent so long being a part of.  There was no guideline he could hope to ever find and follow, now. It leant a bittersweet sting to this victory but he knew, too, even if he were given the chance, he wouldn’t make a different choice. </p><p> </p><p>Because the truth was that there was no precedent for Ivy Moxam. There was no precedent for Ivy Moxam at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>— THE END</strong>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Me, writing a 56k fic from March 2019 - December 2020 about a piece of media no one has posted about since 2017? Destined to be the only fic in its tag? More likely than you think.</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Inspired by three things:</strong></p><ol>
<li>The lines in the original show:<br/>
<br/>
<em>Elliot: "Careful, you’re sounding jealous.” </em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Lisa: “Of her?” [scoff] “You’re going down a stupid path, even with <span class="u">your track record."</span> </em><br/>
<br/>
Me: What track record??<br/>
<br/>
</li>
<li>Elliott coming over when Ivy calls and sleeping on the floor of her room when she says she doesn't want to be alone. Ivy revealing to Lisa Elliott 'came over last night.' Ivy visibly reacting to Lisa and Elliott coming up the path to the house, tucking in their shirts (why wouldn't they have done that earlier, anyway?) Ivy's last on-screen words being, "Elliott will come for me" <em>and then he didn't.<br/>
</em><br/>
Hello?! Why set this up narratively when you have no intention to follow through?<br/>
<br/>
</li>
<li>The abysmal portrayal of how police services fail to help and often actively harm victims (of sexual assault, especially) when investigating. Not saying this isn't realistic, just horrifying. I swear not a single person on this show displayed the slightest bit of sympathy/understanding for Ivy, or if they did, it dissolved immediately when things got complicated. Elliott isn't excluded from this criticism and what he does certainly crosses a lot of lines but characters can have a little moral greyness, as a treat. </li>
<li>I lied. Four reasons. Fourth reason is Jodie Comer and Richard Rankin (and Ariyon Bakare, and Aneurin Barnard, and Valene Kane? This cast was stacked). I was disappointed.</li>
</ol><p> </p><p>  <b>Anyway, cop shows are lying to you, just like cops will. Know your rights. Always get a lawyer if you can.</b></p></blockquote></div></div>
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